A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (72)

Only six of us are present: The two shénnóng-tú who are companions of Shao and Guoming have not joined us. I note their absence as we stand before the judges. Only three pedestals, three birds. Something must have happened.

Elder Guo stands. “The minister has performed the summer rites to appease the heavens, for the gods to bless us with fair weather and a bountiful harvest. It should be an auspicious time for Dàxī, but instead we have uncovered a plot to cheat in our competition.”

Behind us, an official enters the pavilion and bows to the judges. The pendant swinging from his sash indicates he is from the Ministry of Justice. Even though his sword is sheathed in an ornamental scabbard, and we are far from Sù, I still feel a familiar chill at the sight.

“We have determined that the mercenary was hired by the Zhu family in an attempt to influence the competition in their son’s favor,” he reports. “They have provided their confessions and will be sequestered to their residences, awaiting judgment.”

Beside me, I hear a chuckle. Glancing over, I see Shao and Guoming, barely able to contain their glee. It would not surprise me if these two had some hand in influencing the other competitors to attempt their subterfuge. A whispered suggestion, a nudge and wink. At least Wenyi’s expression is stoic, and Chengzhi appears disgusted by the discovery.

“Greed continues to remain in the people of Dàxī,” Elder Guo says with distaste. “We must remember that the path to wisdom is self-restraint. We must not give in to our primal selves.” The princess looks perturbed by this comment but does not interrupt the elder’s speech.

“First, we will see how you fare in this challenge.” Elder Guo nods in the direction of Shao and Guoming. “The items you have requested are already present in the pavilion, marked with your names.”

After greeting the judges with courteous bows, the two of them separate—Guoming to the table where the ingredients are laid out, and Shao to collect their Piya from the pedestal.

An enclosure is moved into the middle of the pavilion by the servants: a wooden frame with wire-mesh walls placed on a waist-high table for optimal viewing. Shao releases the Piya into the enclosure, where it tests out its new space by flying from one side to the other. The stage is set.

Shao nods at Elder Guo, who gestures a monk forward. He hands Shao a covered pot the size of his palm, the corners sealed with red wax. A warning of the dangers contained within.

“I am honored to be standing before the judges today, and to set eyes upon these rare creatures.” Shao bows with a flourish. Guoming stands next to him, holding a tray with one cup in the center, filled with something steaming. Shao carefully breaks the wax seal and sets the pot on the table before him. With steady hands, he uses a pair of chopsticks to lift the jīncán out for all to see.

It’s such a small thing, the silkworm pupa. Only the size of a thumb. The color is pale gold, almost translucent, as if the poison has leached all the color out of it. Shao places it carefully on the plate, then covers it with another bowl.

Selecting the cup from Guoming’s tray, he salutes the judges and then drains it in one mouthful. I smell the scent of rain, perceive the same peculiar feeling prickling my brow. Shao uncovers the plate with a flourish, and in the center, gleaming, is a plump red date. The jīncán has disappeared.

“An illusion,” Lian breathes beside me.

Shao laughs, turning toward her, the rush of the magic making him amicable for once. “Not an illusion. A transformation. To the Piya, it will taste like a date.”

“Marvelous!” Marquis Kuang approaches, face taking on a calculating expression. “How long does this transformation hold?”

Shao shrugs. “Depends on the skill of the shénnóng-tú. A competent apprentice should be able to maintain it for the span of one incense stick.” The arrogance returns swiftly with Shao’s declaration: “In my class, I hold the record. A breath over two hours.”

That’s more than double the expected time.

“Impressive.” The marquis nods and returns to his seat.

“It is not sufficient for the jīncán to merely appear as something else,” Elder Guo calls out. “The bird has to ingest it.”

“Of course.” Shao bows and slides the plate into the enclosure.

The Piya settles beside the plate and regards it. Deeming it good to eat, it plucks the date off the plate and swallows it whole. Only a moment passes before it begins to convulse. The nature of the jīncán is such that ingesting a few small flakes of it over time results in a slow death, but to partake in such a large amount at once?

The bird makes a high, keening noise of pain and despair. The other two Piya in the pavilion screech in concern. Guoming is there immediately, reaching into the cage. He pries open the Piya’s mouth with gloved hands and pours a tonic down its throat. It’s too weak to fight him, but it feebly attempts to fend him off with a flap or two of its wings.

It jerks, once, twice, then the date is expelled successfully from its body, covered in a slick fluid. The bird lies there, dazed, chest heaving, but still alive. The monk, waiting to the side of the pavilion, quickly approaches and returns the transformed jīncán back into the pot. The bird is ushered away as well, having endured its purpose.

“Well done,” Elder Guo pronounces. “A worthy resolution to the dilemma presented. Now, our next pair of shénnóng-tú will demonstrate their abilities.”