Dao of Language

I am seated inside the carriage, waiting, while through the little window slips in air so hot that it seems to come straight out of the mouth of an oven.

And while I wait, I cannot help reviewing, for the umpteenth time, the argument I lost this afternoon.

Because I tried, oh how I tried. I explained to Lianhua, with all the logic and all the patience I am capable of, that the Imperial Theater is not so far from the Pavilion, that the night, though hot, was much more bearable than the hell of midday, and that a calm stroll would have been a perfectly dignified way of getting there. I offered her arguments, I offered her data, I offered her even the most elementary common sense.

And Lianhua, faithful to herself, defeated me with a single sentence.

“One goes to the Imperial Theater with a certain elegance, Zhāohuán Wen”, she told me with that calm of hers that admits no reply. “And elegance implies going by carriage.”

And against that I had nothing to counter, because however much I may belong to that group of people for whom comfort weighs more than appearances, I know perfectly well that in this world, and above all in a place like the one we are going to tonight, appearances are a currency that is worth as much as spirit stones. So I gave in, swallowed my sermon about the advantages of the nighttime stroll and here I am, shut inside a box of lacquered wood.

At my side, Xia holds up with an admirable fortitude for someone of her age, although I see her fan herself with her hand every few seconds and blow at the bangs that stick to her forehead. She wears her version of the outfit, a simpler and more modest adaptation of mine conceived for her rank and her stature, and even so she is infinitely more comfortable than she would be with her usual uniform, something she knows perfectly well and that does not stop her from complaining all the same.

“Wen”, she tells me at last in a low voice. “Is it much longer until we can get out? In here I’m cooking.”

“Same here”, I reply to her. “But the blame for our being in here and not walking under the stars is not mine. Remember that the next time it occurs to you to agree with Lianhua.”

Xia lets out a little laugh, and just at that moment the carriage door opens and Lianhua’s serene face appears outlined against the orange light of the lanterns outside.

“Everything is now ready, Zhāohuán Wen”, she announces to me.

After those words, Lianhua passes one arm behind my back and the other under my knees, lifts me from the seat and deposits me in the chair with a care that, habitual as it is, still moves me a little. She places my legs in their spot, smooths the short skirt of the outfit so that it falls as it should and, when she is satisfied with the result, takes a step back.

And then I lift my gaze and contemplate the surroundings.

The first thing I confirm is that, indeed, we are an object of attention. In front of the theater the usual bustle of carriages has formed that arrive and unload their occupants, and more than one of those occupants has taken advantage of the moment of their own arrival to take a good look at mine. I notice the gazes passing over me, stopping on my chair and, above all, stopping on my clothing.

But it has been a long time since I learned that the only way to survive that kind of scrutiny without going mad is to decide, beforehand, that I couldn’t care less, so I straighten my back and compose my face as if they did not exist.

The building before me is, without a doubt, luxurious. It shows in the quality of the stone, in the height of the columns, in the way each line is conceived to impose. But, curiously, it is not overloaded, evidencing a clear lack of the carvings, golden dragons and impossible eaves with which many buildings of the Imperial Palace try to demonstrate their importance.

It is the sobriety of one who needs to demonstrate nothing, the elegance of one who knows that their prestige sustains itself. Above the main entrance, a single sign, written in impeccable calligraphy and without a single superfluous adornment, announces two words and nothing more: Imperial Theater.

And that is all, which makes me furrow my brow since something doesn’t add up for me.

It takes me a moment to realize what exactly it is that grates on me about the image, until I hit on it, which is that there is not a single sign indicating what play is performed tonight, nor who interprets it, nor at what time it begins, nor anything resembling that. In my other life, a theater of this category would have had its facade covered with enormous and striking posters, with the name of the play in huge letters and, probably, the face of some famous actor looking at you with a dramatic gesture.

Here, on the other hand, there is absolutely nothing.

And, after thinking about it a second, I understand why, and it strikes me as of an almost cruel logic in its simplicity. Here there is no need to announce anything, because if someone is important enough to attend, they are also, by definition, someone who already knows perfectly well what play is performed that night. The very knowledge of what happens inside is part of the privilege, and those who do not know it, simply, have no place in this site.

While I turn over that little sociological revelation, I hear behind me the sound of the step and, a moment later, Xia appears in my field of vision, having gotten out of the carriage on her own two feet. She brushes off her skirt, lifts her head to contemplate the building just as I have just done and, for an instant, her expression of an impressed girl strikes me as much more endearing than all the imperial sobriety in the world.

“Well”, I tell Lianhua. “We have already enjoyed the heat of the street enough and have exhibited ourselves sufficiently to be the gossip of the whole month. And since one of the reasons we have come tonight is the blessed Temperature-Regulation Formation, I think it is about time we went in to check whether it really works or whether it is only propaganda.”

Lianhua replies nothing, she simply positions herself behind my chair, rests her hands on the grips and begins to push me toward the entrance with her customary firmness. Behind us set off Xia and two of the Nei Wei of the escort, while the others stay in charge of the carriage, and thus, in a small procession, we cross the threshold of the Imperial Theater.

And the moment we cross it, the change hits me full on.

It is immediate, almost physical, that sensation of passing from one world to another with just a single step. Behind stays the thick and scorching air of the street, and the one that receives me inside is cool, clean and, above all, breathable. I let out without meaning to a small sigh of relief, because after days suffering the swelter, this relative coolness feels like a blessing.

But, as always, I am not slow to set about analyzing the situation instead of limiting myself to enjoying it, because the air is cooler, yes, but it does not reach, by a long shot, the pleasant and constant temperature we enjoyed everywhere before the fire Qi surge came to turn the world upside down.

It is as if the formation had managed to scrape from the heat only a part of what it has gained, leaving the atmosphere at an intermediate point between the unbearable of outside and the civilized of before.

And, while Lianhua pushes me toward the interior, I amuse myself looking for an explanation.

The first possibility is that a formation, however sophisticated it may be, has its limits, and that it simply doesn’t give for more when the air itself is saturated with fire Qi. It is plausible, but I lean much more toward the second possibility, which is rather less noble and rather more realistic. And it is that lowering the temperature another bit would probably have a cost so exorbitant, in spirit stones or in whatever feeds the formation, that the ministry in charge of keeping it running simply is not willing to pay it.

Why spend a fortune on achieving perfect coolness when with a passable coolness the clientele is already kept happy.

And upon arriving at that conclusion, I cannot help a small smile escaping me.

Because it turns out most comforting to confirm that there are things that are the same in every world. That the eternal and petty battle between cost and efficiency, the one that in my other life governed the thermostat of any office building, reaches here even to the closest equivalent this world has to an air conditioner. Deep down, it doesn’t matter whether it is a maintenance technician pressing a button or an imperial functionary feeding an arcane formation, in the end there is always someone doing the math and deciding that that last degree of comfort is not worth paying for.

Still smiling to myself with that idea, I lift my gaze and, for the first time, I really take notice of my surroundings, and what I see wipes the smile off my face all at once while it leaves me with a sensation of déjà vu.

Because I find myself in an enormous vestibule, of very high ceilings and polished floors that reflect the light of the lamps, and that vestibule is full, to the brim, of people. But not of people seated, nor of people waiting in line, nor of people looking for their seat as I, naive of me, had imagined.

No. What there is here are groups. Dozens of groups, distributed throughout the whole hall, formed by elegantly dressed men and women who chat among themselves while they hold, with the studied pose of one who knows they are being watched, small cups with colored beverages.

And the scene resembles so much, but so much, the one I lived during the auction of the Guild of Merchants I attended with Master Mu, that for a second I have to remind myself that I have not traveled in time.

“Lianhua”, I ask her, not quite understanding. “May I know why all these people are gathered standing and drinking, instead of going to sit in their seats to watch the play?”

“It is the custom, Zhāohuán Wen”, she replies to me without flinching, as if the question seemed most natural to her. “Before a performance begins, there is always a period of time dedicated to the attendees relating among themselves while one waits for everyone to finish arriving and the last preparations of the play are finalized. To sit down before that period concludes would be considered, so to speak, a demonstration of bad taste.”

I let out a sigh so long that it almost surprises me.

Because, once more, I have again fallen into the same error as always, that of taking for granted that things here work as they worked in my other world. I had imagined the evening as I would have imagined it there, that is, to arrive, find your seat, sit down and wait patiently, perhaps reading the program, for the lights to go out and the spectacle to begin.

But it is clear that here an occasion in which so many important people gather is never wasted and each event, be it an auction, a ceremony or a simple night at the theater, is first and foremost an excuse to form little circles and cliques, to weave alliances and, without the least doubt, to gossip to exhaustion about the affairs of the court.

I decide then that the most sensible thing is to get away from all this social swarm as soon as possible, and I am about to ask Lianhua to take me to some discreet corner where I can wait, safe from gazes and conversations until the performance begins, when I notice a movement.

A small group has split off from the swarm and advances, with a resolute step, directly toward me, so I turn my head to look at who they are, and my heart sinks to the floor.

Because at the head of the group comes my brother Sun Rui, the second prince, with that martial pose and that confidence of one who knows himself backed by one of the largest armies of the Empire. And, a step behind him, he is accompanied by another of my brothers, Sun Hong, who goes almost always glued to Sun Rui like his shadow. Completing the group are two women I don’t recognize, dressed in expensive silks and elaborate hairstyles, who follow them with the discretion of those who are there to observe more than to speak.

Knowing my brothers, I am sure, absolutely sure, that this visit cannot be for anything good. But life in this court has taught me, among many other things, that the smile is an armor as useful as any other, so I sketch one, perfectly cordial, and greet them as soon as they reach my level.

“Brother Sun Rui, brother Sun Hong”, I tell them with a slight inclination of the head, this time without including any honorific in calling them brothers. “How unexpected to find you here.”

“The pleasure is ours, sister”, Sun Rui returns my greeting, with a courtesy just as impeccable and, I suspect, just as feigned as mine.

And from there begins one of those conversations that constitute the true mother tongue of this court. Friendly on the surface, riddled with empty compliments, with questions that do not seek an answer and answers that answer nothing. We talk about the heat there is, which gives for a lot. We talk about the play we are going to see, without any of us admitting much about what we know of it beyond that it is based on my book.

We talk about courtly trifles that I forget in the very instant I hear them, until, at a given moment, Sun Rui barely tilts his head and lets fall, with a tone that pretends to be carefree, the first comment with a certain edge of the whole chat.

“I must confess, sister, that your wardrobe and that of your handmaidens strikes me as most singular”, he tells me, running his gaze over me up and down. “It is not common to see such attire in a place like this.”

And there, at last, after so much triviality, I find a subject about which I do have something to say.

“I see nothing singular about it, brother”, I reply to him calmly. “The strange thing, if you stop to think about it, would be the opposite. With the heat there is, and without having the Fire Gate open so as not to notice it, the truly strange thing is to insist on continuing to wear clothing that does nothing but give you even more heat, instead of taking advantage of the wisdom of a sect of the Celestial Realm about which is exactly the clothing it is advisable to wear with the temperature we have right now. This attire I copied from the one used precisely by a sect like that, people who lived subjected to this heat, or to a worse one, throughout the whole year. I would not say that that is being singular, I would say that it is, simply, being practical.”

Sun Rui blinks, and for an instant I see surprise peek onto his face, as if he did not expect my reply to have a reasonable argument, but he recomposes himself right away, too political to let himself be dragged into committing to an opinion about something as slippery as skipping the court’s dress code.

“A certainly curious way of seeing it”, he concedes at last, with a studied vagueness that means absolutely nothing. “You have always had your own ideas about things, sister.”

A reply of conciliation that says neither yes nor no, exactly what was to be expected. But while he slips away with his vagueness, my eyes deviate an instant toward the two women who accompany him, and there I find something much more interesting, because they say nothing, of course, since it is not their place to, but the way in which they have stayed looking at me, with a glint of very concrete interest in their eyes and a gesture that betrays that they are retaining every word I have said, reveals to me that my little speech about cool clothing has sunk much deeper into them than into my brother.

It doesn’t surprise me, since after all, it is they, and not he, who are probably suffering this heat the most.

We continue a while longer with the light chat, and while we exchange hollow phrases, my head works underneath at full machine, trying to figure out what the devil my brother really wants, because I am crystal clear that Sun Rui has not crossed half the vestibule and planted himself in front of me only to give an opinion about my wardrobe.

And I don’t have to wait long to find out, because, at a certain moment, Sun Rui takes a sip of his cup and, with a most rehearsed naturalness, lets loose his true card.

“By the way, sister”, he tells me. “I was curious to know what you thought of the proposal that has been sent to the Guifei Xiang.”

The question catches me so completely off guard that I blink, since I have no idea what he is referring to.

“What proposal?” I ask him, without bothering to disguise my bewilderment. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Now it is Sun Rui who seems surprised, and he arches his eyebrows looking at me as if I had just said something absurd.

“The Guifei Xiang hasn’t mentioned anything to you?” he asks me.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re referring to”, I reply to him sincerely.

Sun Rui observes me a moment, calibrating whether I am telling him the truth, and apparently concludes that I am, because then he brings the cup to his lips again, takes a first slow and deliberate sip, like one who takes their time before letting loose news that they know they are going to enjoy saying, and only after does he speak.

“The family to which my mother belongs, the Kang family, has sent the Guifei Xiang a marriage proposal”, he says with clear satisfaction. “They want to offer you the position of principal wife of one of the members of their main branch.”

And upon hearing those words, suddenly, the conversation I had with my mother just before leaving for the auction with Master Mu comes to my mind, sharp as if it had happened yesterday. That time when she, with that mixture of hers of affection and warning, let drop that sooner or later the great families would begin to take notice of me, not for who I am, but for what I am worth, and that when that happened the marriage proposals would begin to rain down from those who wished to absorb me for themselves. And I cannot help thinking, with a good dose of irony, that her prediction has been fulfilled to the letter, even if it has been with a few years of delay.

But, however much her forecast may have come true, I do not intend to let the news intimidate me in the slightest, so I hold Sun Rui’s gaze without blinking and ask him the only question that seems pertinent to me.

“And why would I have to marry a mere Kang family?” I reply to him with a clear tone of indifference.

The effect of my question is immediate and, I must admit, rather gratifying.

Because Sun Hong, who up to that moment had barely parted his lips, leaving Sun Rui all the weight of the conversation and limiting himself to nodding from time to time, has chosen just that instant to take a swig of his own cup. And my words catch him with the drink halfway, which causes him to choke badly and break into coughing, bringing a hand to his chest while he tries, without too much success, to recover his composure.

Sun Rui, on the other hand, what he does is slightly narrow his eyes, and when he speaks again his tone has lost a good part of that rehearsed cordiality of the beginning.

“The Kang family is one of the most important families of the entire Empire”, he tells me in a more inquisitive tone. “For anyone it would be an honor to be able to marry one of their principal members.”

I look at him fixedly and let the silence settle a moment before replying, because I want each word to count.

“That is precisely the problem, brother”, I tell him at last. “That I am not anyone. I am a Sun and I form part of the governing family, and therefore, the most important family of the Empire. And, as if that were not enough, as if it were necessary to add still more weight to the balance, it turns out that I am the Zhāohuán of the Empire.”

Sun Rui opens his mouth, clearly disposed to reply, but I don’t give him the chance. I continue before he can place a single syllable, and this time I let a smile, sweet only on the surface, peek onto my lips.

“And in the absence of an Empress, dear brother, that makes me the most important woman of the entire Empire, with the only possible exception of my mother, the Guifei Xiang”, I go on. “What sense would it make for me to lower my position by marrying and taking the surname of a mere Kang family? If we stick to logic, the reasonable thing would be just the opposite, that it would have to be the member of the Kang family who married me and took the surname of the Sun family.”

My words achieve their effect, and I see how Sun Rui’s jaw tenses. What I have told him bothers him, and bothers him truly, because I have touched just the point where his proposal springs a leak.

“That is not the custom”, he replies to me with a certain rigidity.

And that reply, far from shutting my mouth, makes me smile even more, because he has served me the retort on a platter.

“That it is not the custom?” I repeat softly. “If you want, brother, I can enumerate for you right here, now and without moving from this vestibule, the good hundred cases in which exactly that has happened throughout the lengthy history of the Sun family. One by one, with names and dates, if you feel like hearing them. I assure you I have time, and memory, to spare.”

After my words, the atmosphere between us becomes so dense that one could almost cut it with a knife. Sun Rui holds my gaze, I hold his, and for a while that becomes eternal to me, neither of the two of us yields a single millimeter while Sun Hong, now recovered from his choking, looks alternately at one and the other without daring to open his mouth, and the two women remain so still that they seem to have stopped breathing.

The silent duel could have prolonged itself, but it is interrupted, providentially, by a grave and solemn sound that runs throughout the whole vestibule, followed by a voice that announces, with the careful diction of one who has done it a thousand times, that the performance is about to begin and that the present are requested to begin heading to their respective places.

The announcement breaks the tension all at once, like someone bursting a bubble.

Sun Rui then lets out a snort through the nose, brief and contained, which is probably the closest he will ever be to admitting in front of me that he has not obtained what he came looking for. And, without a word of farewell, without a single courtesy formula of those this court demands even to breathe, he simply turns about and moves away, taking Sun Hong with him. The two women turn to follow him, obedient, but before leaving the two of them dedicate to me, almost at the same time, one last look over the shoulder. And in that look, this time, there is no curiosity nor judgment, but something very different, something that resembles respect quite a bit.

I stay observing how the group of my brothers dissolves again into the tide of people that is already beginning to move toward the halls, and only when I lose sight of it entirely do I let out the air I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Well, it seems it is now time for us to go too”, I tell Lianhua then. “Where exactly do we have to go?”

Lianhua, who has witnessed the whole scene from behind my chair with her customary impassivity, without intervening but, I am sure, without missing a single word, positions herself again in her place and begins to push me gently toward the interior of the theater.

“We have a private box reserved, Zhāohuán Wen”, she informs me as we advance. “On the top floor. Although there is no need for you to worry about the stairs, I have had the precaution of bringing with me some of the Minor Levitation Talismans we keep precisely for cases like this.”

I nod slowly, and I cannot help feeling a pang of admiration for her foresight, because I, with all the bustle of the day, had not even thought of them despite having created them precisely for situations like this.

“Well done, Lianhua”, I tell her sincerely. “Good thing one of the two of us thinks of these things.”

And with those words, while Xia trots at my side and the Nei Wei follow us closely, I finally enter into the interior of the Imperial Theater, leaving behind the vestibule, my brother and the, I hope, failed proposal while I prepare myself to discover, once and for all, what the devil they have done with my novel.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!