Prince Gong did not allow the silence to linger. In the heart of a crisis, inaction was a poison of its own. He had spent years under the Emperor's subtle tutelage, learning to see the machinery of state not as a collection of rituals, but as a weapon to be wielded. Now, with the weapon's master lying insensate, the responsibility fell to him.
"Physician Zhao," he commanded, his voice regaining its iron authority. "You and your colleague will remain here. You will not move. You will not speak to anyone. General Meng." He turned to the formidable bodyguard, whose face was a thunderous mask of grief and rage. "Post two of your most trusted men at this door. No one, not even myself, is to enter without the express permission of Empress Dowager Ci'an. Your primary task, however, is no longer guard duty. It is to hunt."
Meng Tian's eyes, burning with unshed fury, locked onto the Prince's. "Hunt who?"
"The hand that guided this pestilence into the Forbidden City," Prince Gong stated flatly. "The Emperor is a victim of an attack. This was not illness; it was assassination. You have my full authority. Pursue any lead. Tear down any wall. Question any person. Find the source. I will handle the court."
He turned to Ci'an, his tone softening fractionally. "Your Majesty, I need you. We must convene the Grand Council immediately. Your presence is non-negotiable. We must project absolute stability."
Ci'an, pale but resolute, nodded. The fearful co-regent of years past was gone, replaced by a woman who had stood beside a titan and absorbed some of his strength. "Lead the way, Prince Gong."
Twenty minutes later, in a side hall chosen for its security, the core of the new Qing government assembled. The air was frigid with tension. Prince Gong presided, his face carved from granite. To his right sat Empress Dowager Ci'an, a symbol of legitimacy. Opposite them was Ronglu, the former conservative hardliner, now a co-opted and pragmatic head of the new military academy, his brow furrowed in thought. Weng Tonghe, the Emperor's former tutor and now a key minister, wrung his hands, his scholarly demeanor ill-suited for such a raw crisis.
"The situation is this," Prince Gong began, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "His Majesty is grievously ill, struck down by a sudden affliction. The cause is, for official purposes, unknown. As of this moment, the Forbidden City is sealed. No one enters or leaves without my personal authority and seal. The official announcement to the ministries will be that the Emperor has caught a severe chill from the autumn air and requires a period of absolute rest and seclusion. Not one word of the truth, not a whisper of our panic, leaves this room. Is that understood?"
Ronglu grunted, his gaze sharp. "Understood, Your Highness. But we are not children to be placated with stories of a 'chill.' This timing… it reeks of the Summer Palace."
"I agree," Weng Tonghe murmured. "The day before the Emperor's formal ascension to full power… it cannot be a coincidence."
"It is not," Prince Gong confirmed. "Which is why General Meng is handling the… informal inquiries." He saw a clerk enter discreetly and hand a folded paper to his aide. "Ah. A telegraph from Tianjin." He took the message and read it aloud, its stark, capitalized words cutting through the air.
"PRINCE GONG. RECEIVED WORD OF UNUSUAL QUIET FROM PALACE. SUSPECT THE WORST. ASSUME CAUSE IS CIXI. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION. EXTERNAL POWERS ARE VULTURES. THEY ARE WATCHING. ANY SIGN OF INSTABILITY, ANY RUMOR OF SUCCESSION CRISIS, WILL BE EXPLOITED BY JAPAN. MAINTAIN NORMALCY AT ALL COSTS. I WILL MONITOR FOREIGN LEGATIONS AND PORT ACTIVITY. END MESSAGE. SIGNED, LI HONGZHANG."
The message hung in the air, a grim reminder of the wider world beyond the palace walls.
Weng Tonghe swallowed, finally voicing the question that haunted them all. "If… if the worst should happen… have we made provisions? The succession is not clear…"
Before Prince Gong could answer, Ci'an spoke, her voice ringing with a surprising, steely firmness that silenced the room. "There will be no 'worst.' The Son of Heaven has faced down greater foes than a coward's poison. He will recover. Our duty is not to plan for his demise, but to ensure his enemies are held accountable when he returns to us. We will find them. We will drag them from their holes. And we will present them to him for judgment."
Across the city, in a stark, grey-bricked courtyard behind the servants' quarters, Meng Tian began his hunt. Mercy was a luxury the Emperor's blade could not afford. Before him, a half-dozen terrified palace eunuchs knelt, their foreheads pressed to the cold flagstones.
Meng Tian's voice was unnervingly quiet, a chilling counterpoint to his immense physical presence. "The Emperor's personal effects. His laundry. It is delivered every morning, freshly cleaned and scented. Who delivered it yesterday?"
The Head Eunuch of the Laundry Service, a man whose arrogance had vanished in the face of the General's cold fury, trembled violently. "General… it was Little An. A junior eunuch from the laundry service. A good boy, quiet, has been on the route for six months…"
"Where is this Little An now?"
"He… he did not report for his duties this morning, General," the eunuch stammered. "We assumed he had simply run off. It happens, with the younger ones…"
"It does not happen on my watch," Meng Tian said softly. He turned to the two Imperial Guards flanking him, men he had personally trained in the brutal, efficient Qin methods. "Find him. Search his quarters, the kitchens, the wells, the refuse carts. Find him, or find his body."
The guards vanished. Meng Tian's interrogation of the remaining eunuchs was brief, pointed, and brutal. He did not ask about plots; he asked about routine. Who saw Little An last? Did he speak to anyone unusual? Did he receive any gifts? The eunuchs, desperate to prove their innocence, painted a picture of a shy, lonely boy who kept to himself.
Less than ten minutes later, one of the guards returned, his face grim. "General. We found him. In a refuse cart behind the western kitchens, buried under vegetable scraps. His neck is broken. A clean snap."
Meng Tian strode to the cart without a word. He looked down at the crumpled form of the boy, his slight body twisted at an unnatural angle. He was not a detective, but he was a soldier who had seen a thousand forms of death. This was the work of a professional trying to be quiet. But in their haste, they had been sloppy. Desperate.
He vaulted into the cart, ignoring the stench. Methodically, he examined the body. Tucked into the boy's tightly clenched fist, almost completely hidden, was a tiny, exquisitely carved object. Meng Tian carefully pried the cold fingers open. It was a jade bead, no bigger than a thumbnail, carved into the shape of a longevity peach. The jade was of a peculiar, milky-green variety.
"I have seen this before," Meng Tian whispered to himself. His memory, a repository of every detail he had observed in the palace, produced the image. He had seen beads just like this one, dangling from the ornate tassels of the senior eunuchs. Specifically, the eunuchs who had been reassigned from Cixi's personal retinue to the Summer Palace. It was the personal mark of her chief poison master, a withered old eunuch known only as Old Wu.
Far away, in the opulent prison of the Summer Palace, the orchestrator of the chaos was dying.
Empress Dowager Cixi lay propped against a mountain of silk pillows, her once-commanding presence reduced to a skeletal frame. Her breath was a shallow, wet rattle in her chest. The only soul left in the vast, cold chamber was her most loyal servant, the eunuch Li Lianying, who was dutifully spoon-feeding her a thin, lukewarm rice broth.
"Any… news… from the city?" Cixi's voice was a dry rasp, the sound of dead leaves skittering across pavement.
Li Lianying's face was a careful, neutral mask. He did not meet her gaze. "Venerable Ancestor, the city is quiet. The official word is that the Emperor is… indisposed. A severe chill."
A flicker of ghastly triumph ignited in Cixi's sunken eyes. She gave a weak, breathy chuckle. "Indisposed… Old Wu's fungal bloom is never so gentle. It is not a chill. It is rot. It is plague. It is the death of a thousand cuts from the inside out."
She was seized by a violent coughing fit, her frail body wracked with spasms. Li Lianying tried to soothe her. "Please, Venerable Ancestor, save your strength."
"For what, Li?" she wheezed, a ghoulish smile playing on her thin lips. "For another sunrise I will not live to see? My strength is spent. My final act is complete. I told him. I told that arrogant boy he could not rule the world if he could not even rule his own house. He thought he had won… he thought he had caged the phoenix."
She took a shuddering breath, her eyes gazing at the ceiling, seeing a victory only she could envision. "I have pulled the Mandate of Heaven from his hands, even if I cannot hold it myself. Let them see… let the world see… that their precious dragon was merely a boy playing with a fire he could not control."
She closed her eyes, exhausted but content. In the fading light of her own life, Cixi, the Old Buddha, the Dowager Empress of the Great Qing, was certain she had won.