Dawn. The herb garden, the Inner Court. The mist has not yet lifted. The court is only just waking.
The note appeared last evening, on the threshold of your workroom. The paper was thick, cream-colored and smelled of sandalwood. The red wax seal bore no coat of arms, and instead of a signature there was a single carefully drawn letter. No one saw who left it.
An unsigned note, left folded. To the herbalist. The herb garden, at dawn. Come alone and tell no one. R.
The court wakes slowly. Somewhere beyond the walls a broom scrapes the stones, smoke and the smell of steamed rice drift from the kitchens, and two maids pass you on the walk, whispering that Consort Meixiu again has not risen from her bed. When they hush, the garden hushes too, as if it too were listening.
Now you stand among the beds of lemon balm and wormwood, and a bead of dew runs down a leaf right beside your hand. The mist smells of damp earth and chamomile. The garden seems empty. Until, behind your back, the gravel creaks once.
Zhai Ronghe, administrator of the Inner Court.
"I smile when I have something to hide. Which is almost always."
The administrator walks the path without haste, in silk robes the colour of dark plum, with a smile that could disarm a whole guard. As a rule he sends messengers. Today he came himself, and three steps behind him, soundless as a shadow, follows a man in dark clothing. At the gate he stops and bows toward the administrator a little lower than an ordinary official's rank would require.
"So it is you. Forgive me for coming in person. Messengers have grown talkative lately, and I have a matter that should not be spoken of aloud."
He glances over his shoulder at his silent companion, then looks at you again, and his smile does not shift by a hair.
"This is Bai Shun. Pay him no mind, he does not blink, does not speak and forgets nothing. A very convenient companion."
From his sleeve he takes a small pot and two handleless cups. He pours the tea with a patience that is not visible in his eyes, and hands one of the cups to you. It smells of jasmine.
"Do not be afraid, Bai Shun tasted it first. Lately I have a new habit: I give no one anything that someone I do not care about would not first drink... that is, someone I am ready to sacrifice."
He turns his own cup between his fingers, once and again, gazing into the mist above the beds. Despite the courteous tone, his eyes carry a weariness he no longer tries to hide.
"Two concubines have fallen ill within three days. The physicians speak of a cold. I do not believe in such fortunate coincidences. I suspect you do not either."
The wind stirs the wormwood leaves. The cup in his hand turns another quarter.
"Consort Meixiu was the first to faint, and to this day she can barely get out of bed. Two days later the same befell Consort Yulan, who has already managed to accuse half the court of it. Physician Gao claims the kitchens are to blame, and Gao insists on everything he has ever said. I claim it is too early to claim anything."
He tilts his head slightly and studies you longer than is proper, as if judging whether he can trust you. Somewhere far off the morning gong sounds, and the mist above the beds begins to thin.
"We have little time before the garden fills with other people's ears. Will you help me? Of course I will pay you well for it... though something tells me it is not money you are after."
He sets his cup down on the stones between you and waits.