what time did to men when the hair turned white and the sword arm failed, as a poet had written.
The prime minister of Kitai had never had a sword arm. The very idea was, briefly, amusing. And senior court officials didnât walk very much (or at all) within the palace or outside it. He had a cushioned, covered, ornately gilded chair and bearers to carry him where he needed to go.
And he could destroy people without touching a blade.
No, the infirmity that mattered was his sight. It was reading letters, tax records, prefectural documents, memoranda, reports from informants that had become a challenge. There was a cloudiness at the edge of each eye now, creeping inwards like mist over water, approaching the land. You could make that image a symbol for a poem, but only if you wanted to let others know this was happening, and he didnât. It wasnât safe.
His son helped him. Hsien seldom left his side, and they had tricks to conceal his trouble. It was important at this court not to be seen as so aged and frail one couldnât even read the morningâs civil service documents.
He half believed that some of those whoâd be happier if he was gone had taken to using deliberately small calligraphy, to show up his difficulty. It would be clever if they were doing that, the sort of thing he might have done himself once. He lived under few illusions. Emperors were capricious, unstable. Power was not a dependable condition.
Hang Dejin, still prime minister to the sage and illustrious Emperor Wenzong, often thought of retiring.
He had asked the emperor for permission to do so many times over the years, but those had been ploys, a public stand in the face of opposition at court.
If the emperor in his wisdom thinks his servant is misguided, I beg leave to withdraw in shame.
Heâd have been shocked if any of those requests had been accepted.
Lately, he had begun to wonder what would happen if he offered again. Times changed, men changed. The long Kislik war was going badly. The emperor still didnât know the extent of that. If and when he learned, there couldâthere
would
âbe consequences. That needed managing. It could be done, there were ways, but Dejin knew he wasnât the man he had been even three years ago.
If blame for the fighting fell to himâand it couldâthat would almost certainly mean disgrace and departure (or worse). In that case, the deputy prime minister, Kai Zhen, would surely succeed him. And would dominate Kitai, given an emperor with a preference for painting, calligraphy (his own was widely seen as the most elegant in the world), and the extravagant garden he was building north and east of this palace.
The garden (the Genyue), and the Flowers and Rocks Network to supply it, had been Kai Zhenâs idea. A brilliant one, in so many ways. Dejin had approved of it originally, and reaped the benefit of the emperorâs distraction for some time. There might now be a price to be paid.
The question was, who would do the paying?
Deputy Minister Kai probably believed he was ruling now, Dejin thought wryly. After all, there was only an old, almost-blind man between him and the emperor, and though Zhen might speak of honouring his superior for initiating the reform policies, there was little doubt in Hang Dejinâs mind that the younger man saw the older one as weak now, trammelled in old ways of doing things.
Old ways, such as restraint, courtesy, respect, Dejin thought, still wryly. He had grown wealthy in power, accustomed to his stature and to being feared, but he hadnât sought rank with the
intent
of acquiring wealth.
He had seen his differences with Xi Wengao and the other conservatives as a battle for what Kitai should be, needed to be, for the good of the empire and its people. It was a pious, self-indulgent thought, and he was aware of that, but it was also, Hang Dejin told himself,
true
.
He shook his head. His son glanced at him, a blurred,
The prime minister of Kitai had never had a sword arm. The very idea was, briefly, amusing. And senior court officials didnât walk very much (or at all) within the palace or outside it. He had a cushioned, covered, ornately gilded chair and bearers to carry him where he needed to go.
And he could destroy people without touching a blade.
No, the infirmity that mattered was his sight. It was reading letters, tax records, prefectural documents, memoranda, reports from informants that had become a challenge. There was a cloudiness at the edge of each eye now, creeping inwards like mist over water, approaching the land. You could make that image a symbol for a poem, but only if you wanted to let others know this was happening, and he didnât. It wasnât safe.
His son helped him. Hsien seldom left his side, and they had tricks to conceal his trouble. It was important at this court not to be seen as so aged and frail one couldnât even read the morningâs civil service documents.
He half believed that some of those whoâd be happier if he was gone had taken to using deliberately small calligraphy, to show up his difficulty. It would be clever if they were doing that, the sort of thing he might have done himself once. He lived under few illusions. Emperors were capricious, unstable. Power was not a dependable condition.
Hang Dejin, still prime minister to the sage and illustrious Emperor Wenzong, often thought of retiring.
He had asked the emperor for permission to do so many times over the years, but those had been ploys, a public stand in the face of opposition at court.
If the emperor in his wisdom thinks his servant is misguided, I beg leave to withdraw in shame.
Heâd have been shocked if any of those requests had been accepted.
Lately, he had begun to wonder what would happen if he offered again. Times changed, men changed. The long Kislik war was going badly. The emperor still didnât know the extent of that. If and when he learned, there couldâthere
would
âbe consequences. That needed managing. It could be done, there were ways, but Dejin knew he wasnât the man he had been even three years ago.
If blame for the fighting fell to himâand it couldâthat would almost certainly mean disgrace and departure (or worse). In that case, the deputy prime minister, Kai Zhen, would surely succeed him. And would dominate Kitai, given an emperor with a preference for painting, calligraphy (his own was widely seen as the most elegant in the world), and the extravagant garden he was building north and east of this palace.
The garden (the Genyue), and the Flowers and Rocks Network to supply it, had been Kai Zhenâs idea. A brilliant one, in so many ways. Dejin had approved of it originally, and reaped the benefit of the emperorâs distraction for some time. There might now be a price to be paid.
The question was, who would do the paying?
Deputy Minister Kai probably believed he was ruling now, Dejin thought wryly. After all, there was only an old, almost-blind man between him and the emperor, and though Zhen might speak of honouring his superior for initiating the reform policies, there was little doubt in Hang Dejinâs mind that the younger man saw the older one as weak now, trammelled in old ways of doing things.
Old ways, such as restraint, courtesy, respect, Dejin thought, still wryly. He had grown wealthy in power, accustomed to his stature and to being feared, but he hadnât sought rank with the
intent
of acquiring wealth.
He had seen his differences with Xi Wengao and the other conservatives as a battle for what Kitai should be, needed to be, for the good of the empire and its people. It was a pious, self-indulgent thought, and he was aware of that, but it was also, Hang Dejin told himself,
true
.
He shook his head. His son glanced at him, a blurred,
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