The Apothecary Diaries - Volume 11 - Chapter 18

Chapter 18: The Siblings’ Conference

Rikuson looked around the meeting room and wondered why he was there.

He was in the largest room in the administrative building, and with him were Gyokuen’s children. Eight of them, including Gyoku-ou, all seated at a round table.

As far as Rikuson was aware, Gyokuen had thirteen children. One of them was Empress Gyokuyou. Gyokuen’s second daughter, Rikuson had heard, had accompanied him to the royal capital as his aide.

That left eleven children in the western capital, which meant three of them weren’t here. Maybe it was just that hard to get everyone together at the same time, or maybe only one representative had been sent from each mother’s brood.

Rikuson looked around at the siblings, matching them with his memory. Gyoku-ou was the oldest son, of course. To his left was the second son, and to his right, the third. The third son was on good terms with Empress Gyokuyou, and had met several times with His Majesty’s younger brother as well. Both of them sometimes came to the administrative building.

Gyokuen’s eldest daughter sat next to the second son, and the third daughter sat next to the third son. It was the custom in the western capital for the most respected person to sit farthest away from the entrance, but at the same time, the eldest daughter was older than the second son. So they weren’t going strictly by age here, but discriminating by gender.

The fourth son and daughter as well as the fifth daughter were missing. There were also three faces that Rikuson didn’t recognize. He presumed they were the only siblings he hadn’t yet accounted for—the fifth, sixth, and seventh sons. Assuming they were seated in order, that would make the man sitting directly across from Gyoku-ou the seventh son.

Behind each of the seated siblings was another chair, in which sat an aide or attendant. Behind Gyoku-ou alone there were two chairs—his confidant was in one of them, and, for some reason, Rikuson was in the other.

Rikuson couldn’t have felt more out of place, but Gyoku-ou had summoned him to this conference, so there was nothing he could do but go. By all rights, Rikuson should have been in the plaza, observing the ritual.

“So, Elder Brother? What, pray tell, have you summoned us here for today?” asked the eldest daughter, a woman somewhere in her forties with a hawklike nose.

“As I’ve already explained. I wish to discuss the future of the western capital—no, of I-sei Province itself.” Gyoku-ou spread his hands wide. His large, solid frame made his eldest sister look that much more delicate and willowy. The people at the table might all have been siblings, but with each of them having a different mother, they all looked very distinct from each other.

“I can’t go along with what you’re suggesting, Eldest Brother,” the third son said in a firm voice. His sunbaked skin and hair marked him out as a man of the sea. Rikuson remembered that this son was in charge of the ports, and that he could be even more influential than the second son. Gyoku-ou would have to be careful with him.

“Oh no, Dahai? Whatever happened to listening to your older brother?” Gyoku-ou sniffed. He wasn’t dealing with a child, though, but with a man in his mid-thirties.

“I understand what you’re trying to say. You’re referring to what you already told me, yes?” Dahai asked with a glance at Rikuson.

“Don’t worry. Everyone in this room is free to hear about it,” Gyoku-ou said. His way of indicating that Rikuson was on his side, perhaps. Or maybe that he didn’t care if the story got back to the Imperial younger brother.

Dahai looked straight at Gyoku-ou. “You want to attack Shaoh? Our father would never stand by and let you do such a thing. You may be acting governor, Brother, but this is going too far.”

“I agree with Dahai,” said the second brother, a heavyset, tanned man. He was in charge of land transport, Rikuson recalled. “The profits you envision from this war seem hazy compared to the costs of waging it. I’m a merchant. I recoil from the idea of sending my laborers to the battlefield—and if we should lose this war, imagine the debt we’d be in!”

Several of the other siblings voiced their agreement with the second son’s assessment. Gyoku-ou, however, appeared calm. “My, my. Did you all have a little conference of your own before you came to confront me? I seem to remember you being more open to my suggestion before.”

“I do not agree.”

“Nor I,” said the eldest and third daughters. The third daughter had a striking face and an ample body; she looked substantially younger than her thirty-odd years.

When the older sisters spoke up, the younger men, from the fifth son on down, looked around uneasily. The eldest sister ignored their discomfort, continuing, “Where am I supposed to sell my carpets if we start a war? I finally managed to make major inroads into Shaoh.”

Then the third sister spoke up. “And I won’t be able to make my grape wine anymore. Since I assume you’ll get your conscripts from among the farmers? You can’t take my winegrowers, I’ll tell you that. We’ve finally gotten to where people think our wine tastes better than the imported stuff. More and more people in the royal capital are buying it!”

Neither of them were happy. Although they were women, they had real parts to play here. They were full-blooded merchants, true daughters of Gyokuen, and it seemed to set the men back on their heels.

“Harsh words, my younger sisters. Harsh words,” Gyoku-ou said with a grim smile.

“Harsh? I’ve been entrusted with the western capital’s whole textile industry. If we go to war, our best work will cease to sell. Do you know how many craftspeople will end up on the street? Hundreds if not thousands of workers and their families would starve—and you expect me to just go along with this? I would need a guarantee of at least a decade of supply and security on the other side, or I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“My. Such demands.” Gyoku-ou looked troubled. Just for a second, it almost seemed the younger sister had succeeded in outtalking her elder brother, but the concern soon disappeared from Gyoku-ou’s face. “From what I hear, land and sea transport, textiles, and winemaking are all doing quite well for themselves. They’ll be able to continue happily in spite of the swarm.” He stroked his chin, then turned to look at the three silent brothers. “What about ironmaking, ceramics, and animal husbandry? How are they doing?”

One man hesitantly raised his hand. He couldn’t be older than Rikuson, maybe even quite a bit younger. He was small but muscular; from his seating position, Rikuson took him to be the fifth son.

“To be honest, not very well,” he said. “We built a blast furnace in the western capital as Father suggested, but it hasn’t improved profitability. It was never going to!”

“Why not? Aren’t you doing the work? I know there’s constant demand for iron.” The third daughter narrowed her large eyes and looked at her little brother.

“We are! We’re working! But it doesn’t happen like you think. The capital’s port makes it easy enough to get iron ore, but we don’t have fuel! Straw and sheep shit isn’t enough to make an oven hot enough to melt metal. Kindling and charcoal are too expensive—and even if we could afford them, the city is overflowing with trade goods. Customers prefer higher-quality metalwork from abroad. We could work all we like, and we’d still have to sell for the lowest price.”

“Then make more valuable items!” the third sister said. She clearly thought this should have been obvious.

“We will! But do you have any idea how much groundwork has to be laid before we can do that? Didn’t you yourself get our father’s help until the wine from our region started selling?”

“Ahem! Well, yes, but...” The third sister looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“I’m with Fifth Brother,” said a heretofore quiet man in his mid-twenties, raising his hand. They seemed to be speaking in order of age, which would make him the sixth son. Rikuson could only watch the siblings bicker, as inert as the chair he sat in. “Ceramics, too, are difficult to manufacture without fuel. I’m as happy as any of you to see the western capital growing by leaps and bounds as it has been, but at the same time, prices are going up. Especially for fuel, as our limited supply is split among more and more people. That’s a simple fact of life.”

Unlike the fifth son, the sixth spoke calmly and rationally, but what he was saying was much the same.

“Guess that makes me last,” the seventh son began. He still had a baby face, but his cheeks and ears were riddled with scars. “As far as I’m concerned, you can oppose this war if you want. But I’m going to add thirty percent to the price of the wool from my flocks.”

“Wh-What?! Why?!” Demanded the eldest daughter, who was in charge of textiles.

“I’ve been holding down the price for ages now. Mother and Father and Grandpa have been talking among themselves—she’s family, they say. Give her a good price, they say. But when I’m in charge, I want to do business at the proper price. Honestly? Thirty percent is still a gesture of goodwill. It’s just like our brothers said—as the western capital grows, prices go up. So why shouldn’t the price of wool to make your textiles go up too?”

The fifth and sixth sons nodded in agreement with the seventh.

“Thirty percent at a stroke? That’s absurd,” the eldest daughter replied. “The price would normally increase in smaller steps!”

“And while that price is creeping up, the rest of us are going to die!” the seventh son exclaimed, staring daggers at his eldest sister. “Thanks to the insect swarm, my livestock have run away and my tents are in tatters. I would be willing to buy food, but no one will even sell to me—do you know what that’s like? I’ve already had to sell a tenth of the livestock I had left. I know I can’t get a fair price now for what I’ve already sold you. I was selling what wool and butter I had left to buy food, but now I can’t even do that. You know, I’ve also been keeping down the price of sheep dung for the ironworks and pottery kilns. This winter looks like it’s going to be a cold one. I won’t have extra fuel to sell, and it’s going to be all I can do to buy food for myself. Go ahead and whine about how I should cut family members a deal. It won’t help. Because there’ll be no one to give you a discount if I’m dead!”

The seventh son, Rikuson saw, was the youngest, but also the most combative of the siblings. The eldest daughter was scowling.

The seventh son seemed to have more he wanted to say. He looked Gyoku-ou. “Eldest Brother. This being the case, I ask you, this year, to open the supplies.”

“The supplies,” Gyoku-ou repeated.

“You know what I mean. I assume it’s safe to be explicit here?” The seventh son’s gaze swept those around the table. Just for a second, Rikuson felt the young man meet his eyes. “If I raise the price of wool and have coal to rely on, we might just survive. Somehow.”

Rikuson only just managed to maintain his air of cool detachment at the seventh son’s words. He was surprised to realize his heart was pounding, but he succeeded—he hoped—in looking genially perplexed. Why, what’s that? his expression seemed to say.

“The burning stone? Yes, I need it too,” said the sixth son.

“And me! Give some to me!” said the fifth.

Coal—the burning stone. As the name implied, it was a rock that would burn when you set fire to it. It wasn’t mined in the central regions; there was scant use for it there, so it wasn’t seen as valuable, but the same was not true of I-sei Province. Coal was often burned here to help stay warm in a cold year. It was essential.

By now, Rikuson had a firm grasp on relations between the siblings. The older ones, whose businesses were successful, sought stability and didn’t want war. But the younger ones had been forced to the brink by the insect swarm and could find themselves collapsing at any moment. That was where Gyoku-ou found his opening.

“In the long view, the benefits are numerous. If we capture Shaoh, we take its mine as well,” Gyoku-ou said. “Moving coal via the ports will be easy, as will transporting goods into the interior. Our iron and ceramic works will grow, and no one will have to freeze to death ever again.” He spoke clearly, fluently; the speech was well rehearsed.

Dahai rose from his seat. “You’ve done all your planning from behind a desk, Brother. Worse—you can’t possibly know this will work. What makes you think Shaoh will fall so easily? How can you be sure they have a mine from which we can get coal? Shaoh is a neutral country. If Li attacks them unprovoked, other nations will not stand quietly by. You would anger Father, and worse, you would anger the Emperor. His love for our sister You won’t save you then, not even with your nephew in line for the throne! The Yi were destroyed; you think they won’t destroy us?”

Rikuson’s heart started pounding again.

“The destruction of the Yi clan was unavoidable,” Gyoku-ou said sadly, setting off murmuring among the brothers and sisters.

Rikuson took a deep breath. Calm down, he ordered himself. He looked around and saw that the siblings each had one of two expressions on their faces. The older ones looked anxious, while the younger ones looked lost. He realized that the youngest of them, everyone from the fifth son on down, had never learned the details of what had happened seventeen years before.

“The Yi clan attracted the attention of the empress regnant,” Gyoku-ou said. “If they had been left to their own devices, the whole western capital might have been obliterated. Rotten fruit can spoil the box it’s stored in, so that both must be thrown away. It was unavoidable.”

He refrained from saying why they had drawn the empress’s attention.

It was the second son who sighed deeply, rising from his own chair to put himself between Gyoku-ou and Dahai. “Both of you, calm down,” he said. “Calm yourself, Dahai. I can see at least that our brother is trying to come up with some way to help the western capital flourish. We’re all on edge because of the swarm. What will we do if you, who stand above them, chafe and fret as well?”

“But Second Brother...”

“Don’t misunderstand. I oppose Brother Gyoku-ou’s suggestion, as you do. The fuel question is a crucial one, but not one that can be rushed. Right now, I believe we should be focusing on recovering from the disaster that has befallen us. Yes, it will be painful, but didn’t Father teach us siblings to help each other? And you, Eldest Brother, can you not wait a little while, until the heir apparent has grown older?”

At that, Gyoku-ou began to laugh. “Heh heh... Ha ha ha! How many years would you have me wait, little brother? What certainty do we even have that my nephew will safely ascend the throne?”

“Esteemed Brother Ou, you go too far!” the third sister said, striking the table.

Gyoku-ou’s eyes went wide. “You will call me Gyoku-ou!” he bellowed, raising his voice for the first time.

His anger put the third sister back on her heels; her own eyes widened slightly, but in dismay. She had committed a faux pas, and she knew it. “I apologize, Elder Brother Gyoku-ou,” she said.

Almost immediately, the smile returned to Gyoku-ou’s face. “It’s nothing. So long as you realize.”

The other siblings looked at him afresh. Until a moment ago, Rikuson would have said they were exchanging their opinions freely and without restraint, but when he saw how they reacted to Gyoku-ou’s shouting, he sensed a yawning gulf between them. Gyokuen had thirteen children, but only two of them carried “Gyoku” in their names: Gyoku-ou and Empress Gyokuyou.

The father of thirteen children he might have been, but Gyokuen had only ever had one successor, Gyoku-ou. As the one guaranteed to inherit, that made his might among his siblings absolute. His younger brothers and sisters could push back against Gyoku-ou only so far as he allowed them to. His outburst had reminded them of this fact. It had shown them that they held this discussion at Gyoku-ou’s pleasure alone. They were supporting actors whom Gyoku-ou had gathered on his stage.

Needless to say, “anonymous advisor” was not a speaking part. And that’s exactly what Rikuson was.

The mood in the room had become intensely uncomfortable. The second son hesitantly returned to his seat.

The talk, Rikuson thought, might normally have been more amicable, but the insect swarm had left everyone living reduced lives for nearly three months now. Gyokuen’s own children were unlikely to starve, but the weight of the responsibilities they bore frayed their nerves.

“I am not speaking of groundless fears,” Gyoku-ou said. “I speak of the truth. Do you know how many of His Majesty’s children have perished in the rear palace in these latter days?”

The brothers and sisters looked at each other in silence.

“You don’t? Then let us ask someone who comes from that region. Rikuson, how many of the Emperor’s honored children have left the world long before their time?”

Now all attention turned to Rikuson. So much for that minor role: he had been given a name. To have all of the siblings looking at him was almost unbearable, but there was nothing he could do except answer.

“When he was still the prince-in-waiting, one. Since his accession to the throne, three of his children have died prematurely.”

“There you have it. Think how young the heir apparent still is. One cannot be certain of a child’s life until at least seven years of age.”

Children of the Imperial family were raised in better circumstances than those of the common folk, but even so, an infant could die all too easily, and even a grown child might still succumb to illness.

“Our younger sister You has a son, the heir apparent, and a daughter, a princess. But another of the royal consorts has a son nearly the same age as the heir apparent as well. You’s child may stand next in line for the throne, but can we be sure he will stay there?”

By invoking this other woman, Gyoku-ou raised the prospect not only of death by illness, but of assassination.

“Do you mean to imply that Consort Lihua would make an attempt on the life of the heir apparent?” Dahai asked. Gyoku-ou shook his head.

“Ha ha ha. Is there not someone far more terrible than Consort Lihua?” He thrust a hand toward the window—toward the plaza where a state ceremony was presently being conducted.

“Eldest Brother, what are you saying?!” The second brother slammed his fist on the table and jumped from his chair.

“Elder Brother Gyoku-ou, I cannot countenance that utterance,” said the eldest sister; she and the third sister both shook their heads. The other siblings likewise looked uneasy, each turning to their attendants. Rikuson hadn’t been paying much attention to them—he had his hands full trying to watch all the siblings—but they, too, were obviously shaken by Gyoku-ou’s words.

“Why not? Surely it’s clear why none of the royal offspring seem to survive. His Majesty loves his own brother, the Moon Prince, more than he does the children born in the rear palace.”

That set the table buzzing.

“That can’t be... Wait, could it?” someone asked.

“The Moon Prince?” someone else said.

Some were shocked, but to others, it seemed to make sense. Rikuson, for his part, wasn’t sure how to react. The Moon Prince had spent years avoiding the public eye on the pretext of being weakened with illness. There were no other members of the royal bloodline, and there had always been rumors that the current Emperor doted upon his younger brother. They were both children of the same mother, after all. The Moon Prince was kept from public duties on account of His Majesty’s overprotectiveness, some said.

When the younger brother had at last appeared, though, it turned out that he was as beautiful and as gossamer as a celestial nymph—and that he was also a hale young man as skilled in the military arts as the administrative. But what rocked the people who saw him was more than the revelation that the Emperor’s younger brother was not a man to be dismissed. It was because, under the name Jinshi, this man had spent years running the rear palace, pretending to be a eunuch. What was more shocking still was when he chose to make his public appearance: on the occasion of the crushing of the Shi clan.

Ever since his days as a “eunuch,”the Moon Prince’s beauty had attracted much attention, not just from women but from men as well. The revelation of Jinshi’s true identity had caused much consternation among the actual eunuchs of the rear palace; Rikuson had seen it himself. Many wondered whether they ought to retire, or perhaps hang themselves or cut their bellies.

When the Emperor was asked why he had allowed a member of the royal family to pretend to be a eunuch, he’d replied, “To search out corruption.” Indeed, the Shi clan, rulers of Shihoku Province, had attempted a rebellion; their destruction was fresh in the memory.

“And what is this love you speak of?” The third daughter was blushing. She seemed to have another meaning of love in mind, but no one bothered to point that out. The possibility was indeed implied.

“Have you not heard the stories? About whether the Moon Prince is really the son of the former emperor?” Gyoku-ou said.

“Yes, but that’s all they are—hearsay. Even our father said the Moon Prince was much like the former emperor in the sovereign’s younger days. Then who do you propose was the father?” the second son asked, exasperated by the entire topic.

Gyoku-ou’s expression never faltered. “At that time, the Empress Dowager was simply the empress. Only so many people could get close to a woman in her position. If it wasn’t His Former Majesty, it could only have been a family member.” Gyoku-ou grinned—an expression that the people of the western capital might have considered heroic. What he spoke of now, however, was foul. “Say, His Present Majesty.”

“You’re suggesting that the Moon Prince might be the Emperor’s own son?” the fifth brother asked, going pale. Not only the other siblings but their attendants began muttering to each other.

With the many nomadic tribes in I-sei Province, marriage among relatives was common—but relations between a parent and child were taboo.

“Is it so hard to imagine?” asked Gyoku-ou. “The former emperor was interested only in children—and the Empress Dowager was not that young, but still young. Closer in age to our current sovereign than the former one, I daresay. Consanguinity has never stopped the Imperial family before. There are records of past members having children with nieces or half-sisters.”

“This is beyond absurd! What you’re suggesting is absolutely unthinkable!” Dahai shouted. All his deference toward his eldest brother had evaporated.

“And yet it explains everything. The ‘Imperial younger brother’ resembles His Majesty? Well, a son resembles his father. His Majesty dotes upon the Moon Prince? So does a father upon his son. Finally, no children were raised in the rear palace for many years—to allow his eldest son to be certain to inherit the throne.”

The eldest sister marched up to Gyoku-ou, pressing closer and closer to him. “You mean to say that His Majesty never intended for any of his other children to survive to adulthood? That the other infants were murdered, and the Crown Prince will be too? With what proof? What proof do you have?!” Her lady-in-waiting, somewhat reluctantly, held her mistress back.

“She’s right! On what grounds can you say this?” the third daughter demanded. “If it ever came out that you were making such accusations based on nothing but speculation, we would be lucky to meet the fate of the Yi—or even the Shi—clan!”

“You want proof? Then let me tell you a story.” Gyoku-ou, unbothered by the hubbub that had broken out around him, slowly uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “When the Imperial younger brother was born, almost all of the ladies-in-waiting who had attended the empress until that time were released from service. One of them was married off to a man in I-sei Province, and her husband happened to be an acquaintance of mine. Tragically, her husband died, after which she came to me with a request. She said she had something very important to say about the Imperial younger brother.”

Gyoku-ou couldn’t have looked more pleased with himself.

“Is... Is this true?” the eldest sister asked, slowly backing away.

“Oh, it’s true. It was last year. Just after His Majesty’s younger brother had been in the western capital, as it happens.”

Dahai gave Gyoku-ou a doubtful look. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“This is the first I’ve spoken of it. It seemed very strange that she would come to me with her story, but I thought the least I could do was hear her out. Yet almost immediately after that, this former lady-in-waiting died—run over by a carriage in a terrible accident.” He spread his hands mournfully. The implication was clear: he wanted them to believe someone had tried to shut the woman up.

Rikuson felt himself break out in a damp sweat.

This man, Gyoku-ou, had a perfect facade.

He knew how to set the stage.

And he knew how to needle others in their weakest places.

He had no real proof of his claims, yet he would succeed in sowing doubt in the minds of everyone in the room about the circumstances of the Moon Prince’s birth. He talked circles around them and invited them to this conclusion.

“Do you think the Moon Prince would deign to listen to what I have said? Would it be best I not speak of it? Does he know, or does he not know?” Gyoku-ou’s voice rang around the room as he declaimed. His gestures and motions were as studied as an actor’s on the stage, and his tale, which by all rights should have been laughable, fell sweetly on the ear.

“Our father desired and desires the flourishing of the western capital. Is that what we will gain by simply wagging our tails at the Imperial family? If you say we should be their dogs, then I say we should have been destroyed seventeen years ago!”

The Yi clan was named after the dog of the zodiac, and Gyoku-ou played on their name now to invoke the memory of their clan. The younger brothers and sisters who had opposed their elder no longer looked so certain. They had begun to wonder if they should meekly support the Imperial family or not.

This, Rikuson saw, was what made Gyoku-ou so frightening. He would make them do that which they did not wish to.

He knew now why he had been called here. It was a provocation: Gyoku-ou did not care if the Imperial younger brother found out about this. That was why he had chosen Rikuson, a hamstrung man. Just as the bat was neither bird nor beast, so Rikuson belonged neither to the royal capital nor the western city.

Gyoku-ou’s tone filled Rikuson’s mind. It challenged him to speak if he dared—and asked what it would matter if he did.

“Now, we must get ready,” Gyoku-ou said. “We cannot let the ceremony conclude without our presence. All of you, go, prepare.”

At Gyoku-ou’s urging, the siblings parted ways, with heavy hearts and long faces.

Finally, only Dahai among them was left. Before he left the room, he turned to look at Gyoku-ou. “Eldest Brother. This ceremony we go to...”

“I’ll mind my manners for today. I know your hearts are not yet settled.”

Rikuson wasn’t sure whether he found that reassuring. He stayed in his chair, stock-still, staring at the ground.