A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (40)

“I have arranged for the assistance of the finest entertainers in Jia.” His smile is slippery as an eel. A bell rings, and five figures walk in from the side of the hall. Five beautiful women, dressed in white skirts and white bodices, their sashes containing the faintest hint of color, their shoulders wrapped in wisps of shimmering gauze. They tuck their hands beside their hips, gracefully arch their wrists, and curtsy in unison to the marquis, ethereal in their beauty. Like they have stepped directly from a painting depicting the star goddesses of the celestial palace.

I’m sure my own mouth is open in awe, as are many of my fellow competitors’.

The marquis claps, round cheeks flushed. “Some of the greatest beauties of Jia, from Azalea, Peony, Lotus, Orchid, and Chrysanthemum—five of the oldest teahouses in the capital. They are apprentices like you, seeking to make a name for themselves.”

The competitors whisper among themselves; some of the men look as if they wished they could swallow the young women whole.

“These ladies are trained in the intricacies of the tea ceremony,” the marquis continues. “You will prepare a cup for them to drink, and they will prepare you five cups in turn. You will be permitted to select only one cup out of the five, and that is the one you will drink from.”

“How is that fair?” one of my fellow shénnóng-tú protests. “How are we supposed to discern the poison?”

“That is an excellent question.” The marquis smirks. “The emperor requires a shénnóng-shī who will be able to assist him in court, who will be able to assess danger from delegates and tributes by reading a room.”

“This is not a challenge at all.” Another young man speaks, stepping forward from the group with a bow. With fierce brows and a sharp nose, he is striking in appearance, his shaved head indicating he may have been dedicated to a monastery of one of the gods. “Beg pardon, Honored One. It is simple enough to determine whether a person is lying without the use of tea.” I suspect he may be from Yún province due to his heavy accent.

“In the venerable competition on W?lín Mountain, do you demonstrate your skills only by fighting to the death?” the marquis snaps, his displeasure clear. He does not like to be questioned. “Last year the finale of that competition was a Tower Rite. The competitors ascended a bamboo tower and sparred with their bare hands, without any weapons, in order to determine who would be the victor.

“Green Snake and Frozen Snow…” He names two of the most revered martial arts warriors who have come out of W?lín Academy. “Their weapons are spear and sword, but Green Snake won the competition against Frozen Snow without her spear, in direct hand-to-hand combat. It was a test of their balance, intelligence, and endurance, not only a test of brute strength.”

Marquis Kuang’s expression turns cold. “It is not a matter of who is able to use tea like a trained dog. We are not looking for those who can pour tea with the greatest flourish. We are looking for someone who is capable of fitting in with the court, providing sound counsel. And I have not mentioned the last and final rule of this competition.”

We all wait expectantly. Standing beside him, the entertainers offer bland, pretty smiles, unaffected by this demonstration of temper from a powerful man.

“You will be given enough tea leaves for a single cup, enough for you to tell truth from lie … without a word being uttered.”

Confused mutters sweep through the gathered shénnóng-tú. The competitor from Yún bows deeply in acquiescence to the difficulty of the challenge, and retreats back into the line. Now we understand this is a true test of our skill: a single cup of tea to read the mind of a stranger, to operate in silence, with only the magic to speak for us.

“Any other questions?” the marquis asks mockingly, his slippery smile returning.

We all cast our eyes to the ground. No one else dares to say anything.

“Good,” he says. “I will see you back in the Hall of Eternal Light when the next gong rings.” With a sweep of his sleeve, he exits the balcony, the entertainers following behind him.

We return to our residences to be made presentable for the judges. The shénnóng-tú of our residence are escorted to the bathhouse, where we bathe in great tubs scented with flowers. Servants swarm around us, pinning and pulling our hair and dotting makeup on our freshly scrubbed faces.

“I feel like I’m about to be roasted for a feast,” I grumble as two maids pull hard on my sash. Lian rolls her eyes and selects a jeweled pin from the offered tray.

Shu would have loved to be made a fuss of. She would have spent all her time in the Embroidery Department, learning new techniques from the seamstresses. But for me, the robes feel restrictive at my throat and my back, making it difficult to breathe. Strangling me with continuous thoughts of my own inferiority and doubt.



* * *



The Hall of Eternal Light is constructed of wood panels, the ones I briefly glimpsed before with Qing’er. The windows are opened to the views all around, the greatest vantage point of Jia. A gold statue of a horse with its saddle glittering with gems rears against the wall beside the statue of an archer on one knee, arms straining from pulling at a bow aimed high for the sky.

There is enough room to entertain hundreds in this hall, so the seventeen tables—one for each competitor—barely fill the space.