The shed was suffused with the smell of a thousand herbs that made Rin dizzy. He rarely came here, as the place seemed to him full of things that could harm him: Plant specimens—possibly toxic—and strange animal parts dangled from crisscrossing lines, drying in the sun; cabinets along the walls were filled with tiny drawers labeled in Jia’s neat hand; sea horses, jellyfish, centipedes, spiders, tiny snakes, and other exotic creatures floated in jars of distilled liquor; notebooks overflowing with Jia’s recipes and experiments lined the bookshelves.
Jia herself was working at the counter. She was pounding on some mixture in a mortar, the muscles in her forearms bulging with the effort. The sound of the pestle scraping against the bowl and crushing the ingredients made Rin fear the worst.
To his relief, the empress made no mention of the missing herbs. She stopped what she was doing and greeted Rin with a casual bow as though they were meeting in one of the taverns in Zudi.
“We’ve all been so busy that we haven’t had a chance to chat like in the old days. Here, I’ve created a few new pills that I think you’ll like.” She opened one of the tiny drawers in the cabinet and retrieved a few paper packets and handed them to Rin. “The first one is good for cold nights—it keeps the chill out of your bones and can give you a quick energy boost. I know the emperor works you hard and sometimes you have to stay up late. The second one is a sleep aid, but it also gives you peaceful, vivid dreams; I know you like happy herbs.” Rin blushed at this, but Jia went on, “And as for that last teal packet… well, let’s just say that the next time you are with a woman, try it. I’m sure she and you would both appreciate it.” She grinned at him and went back to her mortar and pestle.
Rin’s face was now bright red. He managed to mumble a few words of thanks and put the packets away. He had never married and started his own family, instead devoting all his efforts to serving the Imperial family. He knew that he wasn’t the most talented of Kuni’s advisers, and he had obtained his position in large measure because he had grown up with Kuni—well, also because he was able to bend the rules and do things that Kuni needed done without having to know about them. He had always been a bit insecure about his own place in Kuni’s life, and Jia’s solicitousness warmed his heart.
“Are things going well with the farseers?” Jia asked casually.
“It’s all right,” said Rin. “Things are peaceful. There are always some dissatisfied old nobles and veterans who had served the Hegemon complaining about their bad luck, but nothing that you or Kuni need to worry about.”
“If that is so, I suppose your requisitions from the Imperial Treasury haven’t been very extensive? And you haven’t had to hire many people?”
“That’s right,” said Rin, pride in his voice. “I’ve actually asked for a reduction in my budget.” He wanted to make sure Jia knew that while he might still be tapped into the world of organized crime and making a small profit—mostly by keeping his spies away from certain gangs who offered information as well as bribes—he wasn’t skimming from Kuni.
Jia chuckled. “Rin, you are honest to a fault sometimes. Don’t you know the basic rules of bureaucratic maneuvering?”
Rin was confused. “I’m… not sure I understand.”
“Zato Ruthi complains to the emperor constantly about the amount of work involved in administering the Imperial examinations fairly, and so year after year, he gets a bigger budget and hires more of his friends and students. Cogo Yelu comes up with one new scheme for the emperor after another, and he thereby enlarges his staff and occupies more offices. Those in the College of Advocates are always discovering new ways they can be helpful to the emperor and write more detailed critiques, and so they are allowed to review more types of petitions and pay for more research. Even the generals and enfeoffed nobles know to describe the pirates and bandits in their territories in meticulous—perhaps even exaggerated—detail so as to justify the bloated sizes of their armies and fleets. If you don’t find things for yourself to do, how do you expect to keep a seat at the table? What need is there for a Farsight Secretary if there are no plots and rebellions against the emperor?”
Rin was even more moved. Jia was like a big sister who was watching out for his interests, knowing that he didn’t have the native talent to keep up with clever people like Gin and Cogo. “So… should I be telling Kuni that… that there are more malcontents plotting rebellion, like those scholars and Hegemon cults, and ask for a bigger budget?”
Jia didn’t turn around but continued to pound away at the mortar, punctuating her speech with the rhythmic noise. “Well, exaggerating will only get you so far. The rule of bureaucratic life is that all the departments are competing for a limited pool of funds, and everyone is trying to enlarge his empire. To really secure your position, you have to show Kuni results.”
“But… how? Dara is at peace. There are always complainers, but few are serious about starting a rebellion.”
Jia stopped and looked at Rin, amused. “If there are no rebels, can’t you… create some?”
“What?” Rin wasn’t sure he was hearing right.
“There are many who dislike this time of peace,” Jia said, and there was no longer a smile on her face. “But they don’t act because they lack funds, weapons, and men. Suppose, however, that you find a way to get them weapons and money and light the fire of ambition in their hearts, don’t you think that, in time, you’ll be able to reveal to the emperor a massive plot and demonstrate the need for your department?”
“But why would I encourage a plot against Kuni?”
“Not encourage,” said Jia, “not exactly.” She reached up and pulled down a leaf drying on one of the lines stretched across the shed. “Do you know what this is?”
Rin looked at the leaf. It was thin and wrinkly, and resembled nothing so much as an octopus. He shook his head.
“This is a plant called drainwright grass, often found in Géjira. Because Géjira is so industrious, many landowners build workshops to supplement their income, and the dyes and acids and bleach they use make the soil toxic. Later, if they wish to restore the land to farming, the inhabitants plant drainwright, which delights in pulling the salt and pollutants out of the soil and incorporating them into itself as a way to deter herbivore animals. The farmers then cut down the drainwright grass, burn the leaves, and cart the ashes away. A few cycles of this would cleanse the soil and make it suitable for planting again.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Rin?”
Rin struggled to make sense of Jia’s obscure hints. “You are saying… that if I make money and weapons available to those who I suspect of disloyalty, it is a way to get them to come to the surface, a way to extract the poison hidden in the empire’s soil.”
Jia nodded. “And when you expose such plots, you’ll earn Kuni’s eternal gratitude and gain yourself a bigger budget.”
Rin thought through the plan and grinned. It reminded him of the way low-level bosses in rival gangs sometimes colluded to secure their positions in the eyes of their respective bosses through manufactured conflict. He bowed deeply. “I can’t thank you enough, Jia. A single conversation with you is worth ten years spent in a schoolroom.”
Jia chuckled. “Flattery does not suit you, Rin. If you carry the plan out, Kuni and I will both have much to thank you for. But of course, this will only work if you keep it a secret, otherwise Kuni will not be so impressed with the plots you foment and uncover.”
Rin nodded like a chicken pecking at rice. “Of course. Of course!”