A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (9)
Raised platforms to the right and left are already lined with tables and occupied by seated guests. Murmurs and whispered names rise around me, speculating on the identity of the judges who have been selected to oversee the competition. At the far end of the room there is a dais, with two men seated in that place of prominence, and an empty seat in the middle waiting for one final occupant.
“Who are those officials?” I whisper to Lian as we are jostled in the crowd. We hook our arms in order not to be separated in the crowd of competitors, who are all pushing their way forward for a better view. Our feet slide on the wood floors, polished to a gleaming shine.
“The one to the left is the Minister of Rites, Song Ling,” she says. From the little I know of the court, I’m aware that this is one of the highest-ranked men in the kingdom. The four ministers oversee the Court of Officials, who advise the emperor on the governance of Dàxī.
“The one to the right is the Esteemed Qian.” This name I recognize from one of Mother’s lessons: He was the shénnóng-shī who the dowager empress recognized when she was the regent. His silver hair and long, flowing beard make him look like one of the philosophers from the classic tales. “The princess must have called him back from the academy to attend the competition. Last I heard from my mentor, he had gone to Yěli? to study some ancient texts.”
I’d assumed that Lian, because she is from a more distant province like me, would be less attuned to the politics of the court. But it appears my new friend also has connections in the palace. Before I can ask any other questions, the heralds call for quiet, and we kneel.
Minister Song stands to speak. “Greetings to the shénnóng-tú of our great empire. You are part of our celebrations to honor the late Dowager Empress Wuyang and her legacy. The High Lady regarded the art of tea with great respect. It is present in our culture, in our ancestry. It is a gift from the gods themselves.”
The minister drones on about the virtues of tea until my legs grow numb from kneeling. Finally, we are told to rise.
“Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ying-Zhen!” the herald cries out.
The princess walks in through the side door, her posture erect, her movements composed. Her handmaiden follows at her side, hand on the hilt of her sword. I remember the words of the guard, about the assassination attempts that trail this young woman, and I shiver.
Even though the princess’s ceremonial robe must be heavy on her shoulders, she does not give any indication of straining under its weight. The robe is colored a shade of purple so dark it is almost black. As she moves, it sways behind her, and the threads shimmer and ripple, revealing mountain peaks and winding rivers in silver thread. She wears the kingdom on her back.
When she turns to face us, I can see how her skin glows like a pearl, even from a distance. Her mouth is a bright spot of red, like a flower petal. She settles into the chair between the minister and the shénnóng-shī and speaks:
“I look forward to what you have to present to us.” Even while sitting, the voice of the princess carries over the hall, with the confidence of one who knows she will be listened to. “The competition will commence this evening in the Courtyard of Promising Future. As the Ascending Emperor once said, farmers are the backbone of the country, and our food sustains the soul. Each of you will be assigned a dish from your province. I would like you to brew a tea that is the perfect accompaniment to your dish.
“But—” Those lips curve into a smile. “We endeavor to make each test as fair as possible. All of you will receive three silver yuan and two hours in the market to purchase your teas and additives. Those found to have spent more than the allotted amount or who do not return in time will be disqualified.”
Grumbles run through the crowd, no doubt from those with the money to purchase the more expensive teas that could have gained a foothold over others.
“The first test will be open to the public, so all can witness the beauty of the art of Shénnóng.” Her keen gaze sweeps over us, and the underlying message is clear: I trust you will not disappoint me.
The princess stands to take her leave. She is regal, poised, intimidating, older than her nineteen years.
“Glory to the princess!” one of the heralds calls out, his voice ringing down the length of the hall like a gong.
“Glory to the princess!” Those seated raise their cups in a salute. Those of us who are standing kneel and bow instead, touching our foreheads to the ground, remaining so until she leaves the room.
The competition has begun.
CHAPTER FIVE
We are led directly to the kitchens to begin preparations at once. Steward Yang is a stern-faced woman, with her dark, gray-threaded hair pulled back into a severe bun. She examines our group with an unimpressed sniffle.
“The imperial kitchens have served princes and high officials from faraway lands.” She waves two servants over, each holding a basket filled with red tokens. “Do not embarrass the products of my kitchen.”
One after another, tokens are pulled out, each carved with our name and the dish we are to complement. Eager hands dart forward to receive them.
My dish is sticky rice dumpling—a simple peasant’s dish and one of my favorites. Glutinous rice stuffed with peanuts, wrapped in bamboo leaves, and steamed. It is something farmers can carry around with them for lunch, tied to their sashes with string.