033 I am clearly not sick!

As he walked into the front hall, Jiang Qingyun deliberately slowed his pace, silently observing Wu Yong, who was caught off guard.

Officials of the Great Qing were usually masters of facial expression management. However, in private, away from prying eyes, they could not always keep their composure; management would inevitably slacken. Those capable of wearing a mask twenty-four hours a day were, in the end, a rare and ruthless breed.

Just like now. Jiang Qingyun clearly saw anxiety on Wu Yong’s face.

Taking a deep breath, Jiang quickened his pace, emerged from the rear, and approached with a smile and a bow. "I was unaware of the Imperial Physician’s arrival; my South City Garrison Office is truly honored."

"A pleasure, a pleasure. Censor Jiang’s fame has spread throughout the capital, yet you are so young—your future is truly boundless."

...

Aristotle once said: In officialdom, etiquette is the substance. Jiang Qingyun held this in high regard and kept it firmly in mind. After a brief exchange of hypocritical and hollow pleasantries, the two sat down.

"Director Wu, might you check my pulse?"

"Ah, certainly. Is there something bothering you, Brother Jiang?"

"If I am ill, I shall be cured; if not, it is a precaution. How could I let such an opportunity pass when a master physician is right before me?"

Wu Yong laughed heartily, then composed his expression. He placed two fingers on Jiang’s wrist, his eyes half-closed, his other hand stroking his fine beard—a perfect portrait of a renowned doctor. These two fingers of his were no ordinary digits; they had felt the pulses of the Emperor and the Empress Dowager, and one day, they would touch the pulse of the Empress.

...

Thirty breaths later, he moved his fingers and opened his eyes.

"Brother Jiang, your qi and blood are flowing smoothly, your sinews and bones are strong, and your vital energy is abundant. Apart from that one activity causing a slight drain, leaving your yang energy a bit deficient, all is well. But worry not; I shall write you a prescription that will ensure your future life is pleasant—delightful every single day."

Jiang Qingyun was dumbfounded. How could the Director of the Imperial Academy be so unprofessional!

Wu Yong picked up his brush and scribbled away. A "Golden Blade Prescription" was freshly minted, the handwriting possessing the wild, cursive flair of the monk Huaisu.

"Brother Jiang, keep this safe."

Jiang took it, carefully blew on the ink until dry, and folded it away.

"Brother Wu, I shall not pay you a consultation fee. Whatever you need, just say the word. If I can do it, I will do it immediately; if I cannot, I will find a way. In short, consider it done!"

...

"Brother, you are a man of your word. I have one mystery that puzzles me: why is the success rate of your smallpox inoculation in the South City so high?"

"It is entirely due to the Emperor’s grace and the auspicious nature of the capital."

Wu Yong smiled but said nothing.

"Ahem, and perhaps also because the commoners in the South City are tough-skinned and resilient."

"Brother, I will not hide it from you. With the South City’s success acting as an example, the court plans to replicate your method in the Inner City to inoculate the Eight Banners."

"That is a good thing; it benefits the nation and the people."

"But it is solely disadvantageous to my Imperial Academy!"

"Is Brother Wu worried that if the nobles have an accident after inoculation?"

...

"Exactly, and more than that. I know my own prescription—how could it be so successful? It is impossible. The number of smallpox patients in your South Suburban isolation ward is far lower than I expected. Brother, can you tell me the truth?"

Looking at the intensely sincere Wu Yong, Jiang Qingyun let out a long sigh.

"The secret lies in the reporting."

"Under-reporting?"

"Correct."

"And the others who broke out in pocks? You killed them?"

"I just drove them out of the South City."

Wu Yong was thoughtful; he truly believed this explanation, and his expression became pained and conflicted. "Brother, you have caused me great trouble. Your methods won't work in the Inner City. If those Banner lords break out in pocks, what am I to do?"

"If the sky falls, Minister Hong will hold it up."

"That may be, but I am the one who wrote the prescription; I will still bear the consequences."

"I have a plan. Come closer."

...

Wu Yong’s eyes widened, and it took him a long while to recover. He sighed, "Brother, you are a born official. When you rise to greatness in the future, do not forget this older brother of yours. From today on, I will handle all medical matters for your household. I am at your beck and call; if I am unavailable, I shall send my wife."

"Brother Wu, how much longer?"

"Hmm?"

"How much time is left? Six months? Five? Or is it immediate?"

Wu Yong’s face grew solemn as he stared fixedly at Jiang Qingyun. Jiang nodded, his eyes encouraging.

Yes, it was the very question on his mind: How much longer can Dorgon live? You are the head of the Imperial Academy; I do not believe you don't know. Perhaps you even know when he will succumb to the poison.

Internal conflict raged within Wu Yong, but eventually, he gritted his teeth and decided to gamble. He dipped his finger in tea and wrote a single character on the table: *Two*. After a moment’s thought, he added another: *One*.

The autumn breeze entered the hall, and the water marks quickly evaporated.

"I have some official business to attend to, so I must take my leave. Please, do not see me out."

Jiang Qingyun stood and bowed solemnly.

...

Watching the man’s retreating back, Jiang Qingyun felt a complex mix of emotions. Dorgon, a hegemon of his generation, was about to die. What great upheaval would this bring to the court, and how would it affect him? Would the Shunzhi Emperor still support him? How much longer could the Southern Ming hold out?

He stood there lost in thought for the time it takes to burn a stick of incense. Only when a gust of wind blew the "Golden Blade Prescription" onto his boots did he snap out of it. He bent down to pick it up and brushed off the dust.

He muttered to himself: *You lie to me, I lie to you. You hoodwink me, I hoodwink you.*

*I am clearly not ill, yet you insist I am weak, using this to frighten a man—and what man isn't afraid of that? It seems the Imperial Academy might be even more chaotic than the Imperial Board of Astronomy. Once a place where experts congregate becomes chaotic, it truly becomes a disaster, leaving civil and military officials alike trailing in its wake.*

...

"Master?"

His concubine, Wanchun, appeared stealthily from the back, holding a calico cat. The cat looked reluctant but had nowhere to run.

"You’ve come at the right time. Take this and fill the prescription. Autumn is the perfect time for tonics."

"Yes, Master." Wanchun glanced at it and blushed instantly. A woman who had come from the courtesan houses might not be a scholar, but they were all masters of miscellaneous arts with a vast range of knowledge. At a single glance, she knew exactly what it was for.

*Good fortune tonight.*

"Wanchun."

"Yes?"

"Remember, no one is allowed into my study except for Lüzhu."

"Yes, Master." Wanchun drifted away. Once out of the room, the woman and the cat parted ways, heading in different directions.

...

*Fish play east of the lotus leaves, fish play west of the lotus leaves, fish play south of the lotus leaves, fish play north of the lotus leaves.*

Jiang Qingyun had failed several times, but in the end, he realized that Wanchun’s skill in the bedchamber was no less than her skill in singing. Afterward, she softly sang a *Bodhisattva Barbarian*.

*Jade censer, icy mat, mandarin duck quilt, powder melts, sweat flows on the mountain pillow. Outside the curtain, the sound of the well-pulley; she knits her brows and smiles in surprise.*

*Willow shadows light and dim, lowered head, the cicada hairpin falls. One must make a life's gamble, to exhaust the joy of the lord this day.*

...

"My Lord, did I sing well?"

"Well. Especially the last line: 'One must make a life's gamble, to exhaust the joy of the lord this day.' Among all love poems, ancient and modern, none can surpass this; the *Bodhisattva Barbarian* must rank first."

"I am glad you like it, My Lord."

The calico cat dozed nearby with its eyes closed. Wherever the master was, it was there. As a disgraced, exiled cat, it too was a servant of Master Jiang.

In the next room, his principal wife, Jiangnan, was disturbed by the noise and furrowed her brow. She had disliked Wanchun from the moment she entered the household. One does not need a reason to feel aversion; a respectable woman and a professional performer were natural rivals, yet they were forced to share the same kitchen. Even so, she did not blame her husband.

All faults, she decided, lay with the singing girl.