The twentieth day of the third month, first year of Kaiyuan. Chang'an Outer Garden.
This was the liveliest day in the realm.
Chang'an was almost empty. The number of pedestrians on Zhuque Avenue was seventy percent less than usual; the Hu merchants in the West Market had packed up their stalls, and the teahouses in Chongren Ward had closed their doors. Everyone was heading out of the city—to the Outer Garden, to watch the polo match. The Turkic Khagan had come to court, and His Majesty had personally set up this polo match to show friendship. This was the grandest event since ascending the throne. Flags were like a forest, planted from the Outer Garden's entrance all the way to the edge of the field. Ten thousand banners fluttered in the wind, like a flowing sea. The music shook the heavens; chimes, flutes, and drums layered upon each other, shattering the spring wind.
The viewing stands were raised high, the gold-trimmed wooden railings gleaming in the sunlight. Ministers, envoys, and imperial family members were seated in rows; civil officials in red robes sat on the left, and military generals in green armor sat on the right. The Turkic envoys sat at the very front, wearing brocade robes and tall fur hats. Tibetan envoys, Silla envoys, Japanese envoys, Persian envoys—everyone was there. Everyone was smiling. Everyone thought this was a prosperous age.
The Opening Strike
Today's polo match was to be opened by me. This was a rule personally set by His Majesty, said to be "adding a new twist."
I stood in the center of the viewing stand, holding the ball in my hands. The leather was tight, the stitching fine, slightly heavier than usual. I glanced down, lightly tossing it in my palm; the echo inside was dull—not the sound a hollow ball should make. In Vancouver, I had handled many balls. The elasticity of a tennis ball, the stitching of a baseball, the weight of a polo ball. Each ball had its own feel. This ball was wrong.
I didn't show any emotion. I just held the ball in my palm, as if I had noticed nothing.
The wind blew up from below. Carrying a faint scent. Not floral, nor alcoholic. More like—dry, pungent chemical smell. I had smelled a similar scent in a Vancouver lab. Not herbs, but chemicals. The smell left after saltpeter and sulfur were ground. At the time, the professor said this smell, once smelled, would never be forgotten.
I frowned slightly, my gaze involuntarily falling to one side of the stand. There was the Turkic Khagan's position. He sat very high, but wasn't looking at the field. His gaze fell in the distance—at the goal.
"Empress." The eunuch beside me whispered a reminder, "It is time to open the match."
I responded, looking up. The field had gone quiet. Li Longji was on horseback, wearing light armor, holding a polo mallet. Sunlight fell on his shoulders; he looked like a drawn blade. He looked up at me, a faint smile on his face. In that instant, I suddenly had a strange feeling—he seemed to be waiting for something.
I didn't think further. Raising my hand, I dropped the ball.
The Match
"Start—!"
The drumbeat suddenly rose. Horse hooves were like thunder. As soon as the ball hit the ground, it was snatched away. Dust rose, sunlight shattered into pieces of light and shadow, shaking with the galloping men and horses. Cheers, shouts, and calls layered upon each other.
This was the most prosperous look of the Great Tang. And also the most noisy.
I stood on the viewing stand, but I couldn't hear those sounds clearly. I only watched that ball. It rolled on the ground, was struck, and fell again. Every impact carried a barely perceptible dullness. Not like a ball. Like it was filled with something. My fingers slowly clenched.
Wrong. Not just the ball.
The wind blew again; that smell was clearer. I looked down at the wooden planks under my feet, lightly stepping—hollow. Not the sound of solid ground. My heart sank. Underneath the viewing stand, it was empty.
I猛地 looked up, looking at the goal on that side. Position—directly facing the Imperial Throne. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The ball was tampered with, the stand was hollow, the Khagan was staring at the goal. This wasn't a match. This was a killing game. As long as this ball hit that side—not a score, but an explosion.
On the field, the cavalry was galloping. Li Longji's horsemanship was excellent; with a wave of his mallet, the ball flew from under his feet to his teammate. Everyone thought he was playing polo. But I saw him slowing down. He pulled the reins, making his horse retreat two steps, moving from the main attack position to the flank. He was watching. Watching the field's layout, watching the ball's trajectory, watching where that ball flew.
He was also calculating.
That ball was hit to the east side, then hit back to the west side. Every time it neared that goal, someone intercepted it from the side. Not a coincidence. Li Longji's teammates were protecting that ball from getting close to that position. He was testing. Testing if that ball would fly there on its own. Testing if the people under the stand would detonate early. Testing—who was waiting.
My fingers clenched the railing. He knew. He had known long ago. He didn't tell me.
The Sprint
The ball was intercepted in the center of the field; a general in green armor struck it, sending the ball flying east. Li Longji spurred his horse to chase. This time he didn't slow down. His horse was fast, so fast that the people around him didn't have time to react. His mallet was already raised; that ball was flying towards him.
The whole field boiled over.
"Your Majesty—!"
"Goal—!"
He charged towards that ball. Not dodging. His eyes looked at the ball, looked at the goal, looked at the stand. He was waiting. Waiting for that ball to fly under his mallet, waiting for it to be struck out, waiting for it to fly in that direction. Waiting for it to explode.
My breath suddenly caught. He knew. He knew everything. He was using his own life as bait.
The ball flew under his mallet. He swung—
"Your Majesty—!"
I shouted. I didn't know what I shouted. I only knew he looked back at me on his horse. Just one look. Very fast, very short. Then he smiled. The mallet didn't swing down. His horse swept past the ball, that ball was tripped by his horse's leg, rolling to the side of the field.
The whole field froze.
He reined in his horse, flipped off, and stood in the middle of the field. Sunlight fell on his shoulders; there was dust on his light armor, and on his face. But his back was very straight.
"There is a problem with the viewing stand." His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the field heard it. "Evacuate."
The imperial guards moved. The eunuchs moved. The people on the stand began to retreat to both sides. The Turkic Khagan was escorted down from the stand; his face was very ugly. Tibetan envoys, Silla envoys, Japanese envoys, Persian envoys—everyone was urgently evacuated. People in the crowd were shouting, some crying, some calling out. I stood on the stand, looking at the person standing in the field.
He stood there, looking at that ball. The ball rolled to the side of the field, unmoving. No explosion.
"Your Majesty—" Chen Xuanli rushed to his side. "Explosive wires were found under the stand. From under that goal, leading all the way to the bottom of the stand. It's gunpowder."
"Dismantle it."
"By your decree."
He turned around, looking at that ball. "Take the ball away too. Open it and see what's inside."
"By your decree."
He looked up, looking at the crowd evacuating on the stand. An Lushan was running out from the crowd; there was dust on his armor, and anxiety on his face. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty is startled!"
"I am fine." His voice was very calm. "General An, go check on the Turkic Khagan."
"This subject obeys your decree!" An Lushan turned and ran. His back was very hurried, very loyal, very reliable.
He stood in place, watching An Lushan's back run far away. Then he looked up, looking at me on the stand. Across the crowd, across the dust and smoke, across the smell of gunpowder that hadn't dissipated. He didn't smile. He looked at me, for a long time.
Then he turned, mounted his horse, and galloped away.
The Aftermath
The ball was opened. Inside was gunpowder and iron sand. The imperial guards dug out over ten catties of gunpowder from under the stand; the fuse led from under the goal all the way to the bottom of the stand. If that ball had been hit into that goal, the mechanism on the goal would have ignited the fuse, exploding the stand. The Turkic Khagan's position was directly facing that goal. But the center of the explosion wasn't the Khagan. It was the Imperial Throne in the center of the stand.
It couldn't be found out who did it. The field's guards had changed shifts three times; anyone could have touched that ball. The stand was built by the Ministry of Works; the blueprints were in the archives; anyone could have seen them. The fuse was military-grade, but anyone in the military could get it. All clues pointed in one direction, but all clues were cut off halfway.
By the time he returned to the bedchamber, it was already dark. He took off his light armor, sat on the couch, and closed his eyes. I sat beside him, not speaking.
"Qingyan."
"Mm?"
"What were you shouting today?"
"Shouting for you."
"I heard." He opened his eyes, looking at me. "I heard, so I didn't swing that mallet."
"You knew that ball had a problem."
"I didn't know. I just felt it was wrong. The ball's weight was wrong, the ball's trajectory was wrong, the Turkic Khagan's position was wrong." He looked at me, "I was testing."
"Testing with your own life?"
"Testing with my own life, to make him expose himself." He smiled, "But he didn't. He hid very well."
"You were gambling."
"Mm. I was gambling." He took my hand, "But I lost the gamble. Because I didn't count on you."
"What about me?"
"You would shout. You would rush down. You would—" He looked at me, "You would make me not want to gamble anymore."
Outside the window, Chang'an's night was very dark. No moon, only wind. The wind blew from Zhuque Avenue, carrying the sweet scent of locust flowers and the smell of burning from the distant explosion. Two smells mixed together, like this spring.
"Longji."
"Mm?"
"What did you see today?"
"I saw An Lushan. When he ran over, his face was anxious. But his eyes—not panicked." He looked at me, "A person, after an explosion, not panicked. He knew what would happen. He was waiting."
"Then what do you plan to do?"
He was silent for a long time. Then he stood up, walked to the table, picked up a brush, and wrote a few words on a piece of paper. Folded it, and put it in his sleeve.
"Tomorrow, I will have Yao Chong investigate military equipment. Gunpowder, fuses, military supplies, where each batch came from, where it went, whose hands it passed through. I will have Song Jing investigate the Ministry of Works. The stand's blueprints, who saw them, who modified them, who handled them. I will have Guo Ziyi investigate one person."
"Who?"
"An Lushan's people left in Chang'an. He came to the capital; he couldn't have come alone. He must have people in the city to coordinate. Find that person, and you find the evidence."
He turned around, looking at me.
"Qingyan, I will not wait anymore."
Outside the window, the wind stopped. The scent of locust flowers and the smell of burning both dissipated. Chang'an's night was very quiet, quiet like a rain that hadn't come yet.
(End of Chapter 30)