Jinghe Year Fifteen, the thirteenth day of the second month. Overcast.
The spring chill carried rain, fine droplets slanting through the air, splashing the Vermilion Steps and wetting the jade balustrades.
The Capital, the Hall of Literary Depths.
Two memorials lay on the desk, one to the left and one to the right, side by side yet opposed.
The memorial on the left had a yellow silk cover, its sealing wax already broken. The handwriting was spare, stern, and forceful, its strokes like blades.
The memorial on the right had a plain cover, without title or inscription, its handwriting upright and regular.
Several petitions from the local gentry were attached, their ink differing from sheet to sheet, signatures crowded together in strokes with silkworm heads and swallow tails.
One left, one right. One attacking, one defending.
Separated by a single desk, they stood as distinct as the clear Jing River and the muddy Wei.
Duty in the Grand Secretariat followed established rules: ministers handled confidential affairs, while vice ministers attended to routine documents.
Urgent dispatches from the frontier, expedited memorial drafting, and audiences summoned by His Majesty all required ministers to enter the Secretariat for deliberation.
Vice ministers merely took their turns filling in when ministers were away or on leave, handling ordinary paperwork and awaiting orders.
Today's matter concerned the authority to dispatch troops and the officialdom of Suzhou.
It was too grave a matter for vice ministers to deliberate.
Outside, the rain grew steadily heavier; inside, candle shadows trembled faintly.
Shen Duan had already entered the hall and sat alone at the eastern end of the long desk, wearing a purple robe and jade belt.
The candlewicks had yet to be trimmed; no steam rose from the tea.
Presently, boots sounded outside the hall, their