The Apothecary Diaries - Volume 9 - Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Gyoku-ou

The quill in Rikuson’s hand ran swiftly over the parchment. How many of these signatures had he affixed by now, in the compressed form so conducive to quick writing? He occasionally compared his version to the original just to make sure his hadn’t changed.

Back in the capital, all he’d had to do was press a chop to a piece of paper; it didn’t tire his hand out the way this did. He took a moment to shake out his wrist and regarded the paper.

“Master Rikuson. If you would handle these as well?” A functionary arrived with more paperwork. He was the fifth such bureaucrat to come here; from his minimal accent, Rikuson assumed he came from Kaou Province. His earlobes were somewhat large, a shape traditionally associated with blessing. His left shoulder also leaned slightly lower than the right; maybe he had a habit of carrying everything on the right side.

“Thank you. You can put it here,” Rikuson said.

“Yes, sir.”

This new stuff was, well, busywork. Or at least, the governor viewed it as such.

Most of the population of I-sei Province was concentrated in the cities along the trade routes that linked the east and the west. This “busywork” involved petitions from peasants living in the rural reaches far from the main trade routes. In villages, not cities. Hamlets. Most of them were farmers of some description, livestock herders or grape growers—things that could survive the arid climate. Some of them wanted irrigation canals built; others complained that increasingly frequent nighttime bandit attacks saw them bereft of their livestock. The wheat harvest had been terrible as of late, and there were several petitions asking for someone to come and look.

“Ha ha ha!” Rikuson was laughing out loud before he knew it, earning him a mistrustful look from the departing bureaucrat.

It must have been more than six months since he’d come here from the Imperial city. He had been sent here, allegedly, because they wanted someone who understood the politics of the capital, and yet all he’d been given to do was make-work like this. The only thing that had changed in all this time was that Rikuson had gotten better at it, quicker at going through it, which only meant that he was given more and more of it to do.

“I almost get the feeling they don’t trust me,” he grumbled to the empty room, the office he had been assigned. He worked his right hand again—he was starting to feel tendonitis coming on—and looked over the papers once more. Even he could detect patterns when given enough paperwork to look at day in and day out. After all, he had (he liked to think) more talents than simply a photographic memory.

“I make sure to report everything to him, and yet here we are.”

It was Gyoku-ou who sent all this work to him. If Rikuson spotted something but didn’t report it, he might well be cut loose sometime later when something needed to be cleaned up. He had the distinct sense that was why he had really been summoned here.

Gyoku-ou was the current, if ostensibly temporary, ruler of the western capital. If Gyokuen, who had gone to the central region, decided not to come back, then his eldest son—Gyoku-ou—would succeed him. Gyokuen had several other children, but none as strong-willed as Gyoku-ou.

“Pardon me.” Another bureaucrat appeared with more paperwork. Not more petitions, but papers Rikuson had sent to his superiors that were being sent back. This particular bureaucrat served directly under Gyoku-ou, and Rikuson had seen him exactly twice before. The first time was when they had taken their trip to the western capital last year, and the second was when Rikuson had gone to give his formal greetings to Gyoku-ou—he and this man had seen each other in passing. “These are being returned,” the man said.

There was nothing written on the papers; no signature, no seal.

“May I take this to mean permission has been denied?” Rikuson asked.

“Yes. Necessary it may be, but there are several more important jobs. We must have our priorities.”

Well. He couldn’t be much more clear than that. The corners of Rikuson’s mouth raised and he put the papers in a drawer.

“There’s one other thing,” the man said.

“Yes?”

“Master Gyoku-ou is asking for you. Not immediately—he suggests getting together for tea when you’re done with your morning assignments. If you would be so kind?”

Although phrased as an invitation, Rikuson was not at liberty to refuse. Instead he said, “But of course. I should come to the open-air pavilion in the central courtyard before the afternoon bell rings, yes?”

“That’s right.”

Then, with no further evident interest, the bureaucrat left the office.

The pavilion was where Gyoku-ou always liked to have his tea. It was the coolest place available, right beside the oasis. Rikuson could have guessed: bug-repelling incense was burned there all morning whenever there was going to be tea.

This man Gyoku-ou was by no means incompetent. He had received an education befitting the son of a man of influence, and even Rikuson could sense a genuine desire—perhaps inherited from his merchant father—to make the western capital a more prosperous place. Gyoku-ou possessed an almost unchecked ambition; it had been in his eyes when he was young, and remained there now.

With such ambition came an element of danger.

“Is this within my jurisdiction as well?” Rikuson asked the empty office. He was often there alone, and found he had taken to talking to himself. “Much as I’d appreciate a few more acquaintances...”

Remembering people’s faces wasn’t just a unique ability Rikuson possessed; it was also his hobby. Having a perfect memory for every face you saw meant it got boring seeing the same people over and over.

Among the paperwork he found bills for silks, gems, and other luxury accoutrements. They were far cheaper here in a trade nexus than they were in the Imperial capital, but he still goggled at the prices. He knew very well what these resources were being used on. Just after he had arrived in the west, Rikuson had crossed paths with a young woman. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, and seemed much like Empress Gyokuyou.

When Rikuson had inquired with the bureaucrat showing him around, he’d been told that she was Gyoku-ou’s daughter. The bureaucrat had added in a mutter that they didn’t look much alike—but he’d been wise enough to leave it at that.

“Ambitious... Yes, he is that.”

Rikuson no longer saw the young woman anywhere. She had probably been on her way to the capital for days now.

He felt the corners of his mouth lift up again, and then he went back to his work, the quill rushing over the pages once more.

Other than his tanned skin, the honorable personage across from Rikuson didn’t look much like someone from the western capital. He had a rich, dark beard, and other than some uncommonly deep wrinkles, he could have passed for a perfectly ordinary person from Li. His straight hair framed a round face; he was slimmer than the average inhabitant of the western capital, but toned and muscular.

This was, needless to say, Gyoku-ou. If the father, Gyokuen, looked like a friendly merchant, the son looked like a warrior. He was somewhere in his forties, but he looked at least ten years younger than that, here among the inhabitants of the western capital, where it was so easy to get a paunch. His perfect, white teeth probably helped him make a good impression.

Rikuson looked at Gyoku-ou’s straight front teeth, then averted his eyes. “I’m honored by your invitation,” he said with a long, slow bow.

“Oh, you don’t have to grovel. Have a seat.”

A manservant pulled out a wicker chair and Rikuson sat. There were glasses of juice on the table.

“Would you have preferred tea?” Gyoku-ou asked.

“No, sir. Desk work does make one crave something sweet.”

There was condensation on the glasses; Rikuson wondered if they had been chilled with underground water.

“You’re trying to be deferential again. What, do you think I have some sort of ulterior motive here?”

“Ha ha ha! No, but I am nervous.” Rikuson chuckled and took a sip of the juice. “I confess, I worry you must be disappointed that I was the best the capital could send. I’m in no way suited to your station.”

“Ha ha ha. My father would never pick the wrong man, of that I assure you. You served under Sir Lakan, didn’t you? I’d say that alone is proof of your competence.”

Sir Lakan, was it? Rikuson set down his glass. There was a whole array of different fruit juices on the table.

“If I may ask,” Gyoku-ou said, getting to his feet and turning around. His gaze settled on a group of merchants. “Is there anyone you recognize among that group?”

“Three people, sir,” Rikuson said after a second. “Two of them run the caravans that come to the capital each year. The other does his trading primarily by sea.”

The manservant reappeared and placed writing utensils in front of Rikuson. He put down their names.

“I only know the names of the two. And everyone else in that group is new to me.”

“Understood. I’ll have the names checked against our records.” Maybe Gyoku-ou suspected one of them of something—or maybe he just wanted to put Rikuson’s powers of recall to the test.

A short while later, a bureaucrat came and whispered in Gyoku-ou’s ear.

“Mm,” Gyoku-ou said, sounding satisfied. He stroked his beard. “Impressive. You were right on both counts.”

“I simply happened to recognize them,” Rikuson said with another humble bow.

“Funny thing, that. You must see dozens or hundreds of faces every day, and yet you remember them. You know, in the capital, they claim that members of the La clan are all gifted with rather unusual skills. Are you sure you’re not one of them? It might explain why you were serving Sir Lakan.”

“Wh-What a notion, sir!” For the first time that day, Rikuson laughed from the heart. It might have been the funniest thing he’d heard since he’d come to the west. No traveling comedian could have told a joke funnier than that Rikuson might have La blood flowing through his veins. “That clan is packed full of people who...break the mold, let us say. As for me... Hmm. What I do is more of a habit.”

“Habit?”

“Yes, sir. My mother always told me I mustn’t forget people’s faces.”

“Ah, yes. I seem to recall you come from merchant stock, don’t you?”

“I do, sir, and to forget a customer’s face is to risk a vital business relationship. My mother warned me that to remember was to live.” Rikuson’s laugh seemed to have dissolved his fear, for he spoke easily now.

“It sounds like you had a strict upbringing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rikuson let the moment breathe; he took a sip of the juice. He was just thinking back on the honored strategist’s habit of juice drinking when Gyoku-ou said something unexpected.

“Do you suppose Sir Lakan would like that juice?”

“You know Master Lakan is a teetotaler?”

“Who doesn’t?”

Rikuson was aware that the story was well-known. After all, whenever that man passed through somewhere, it was like a typhoon—and it fell to Rikuson to clean up after the storm.

“I’ll make sure there’s some of this juice available when he comes to the western capital,” Gyoku-ou said.

“When he comes here, sir?” Rikuson repeated, caught off guard. He suddenly became aware that he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Ah, you’re tense again. Yes, I suppose it’s the first you’ve heard of it. Let me tell you a little secret.” It seemed they had finally reached the heart of what Gyoku-ou wanted to discuss. “Sir Lakan is coming to our city—with the Imperial younger brother in tow.”

He almost made it sound like the Imperial family member was ancillary.

Rikuson forced the corners of his mouth into a smile, but inside, he heaved a sigh.

Question: How much do 300,000 people eat in a year?

Answer: It depends on what they’re eating.

The answer was so absurd that Rikuson passed through anger and arrived at sheer incredulity.

After the abrupt tea party, he’d had an opportunity to talk with several people—all of them conversant with commerce. He’d hoped they might have more thoughtful answers for him.

“It’s impossible to say for certain. The western regions aren’t as fertile as Kae Province. Rice is far more of a luxury here than it is in the central region.”

He’d heard the reasoning. He’d heard it many times.

If not rice, then wheat. If not wheat, buckwheat. He was looking for possible substitute foods, wanted to know how much of each they were likely to be able to procure. He’d done the calculations over and over, but he wasn’t a mathematician; he couldn’t find the answer. Truth be told, however, none of the bureaucrats in the western capital were going to go that far out of their way for Rikuson. He was simply put off, treated as an outsider; or else they claimed someone higher up the chain had stopped them; or else that they were too busy and couldn’t spare the time.

“I suppose this is how the Moon Prince always felt,” Rikuson said, unable to contain a sigh. For such a young man, that noble, so often the victim of Lakan’s interference, worked hard. Unfortunately, hard work wasn’t enough. Being part of the Imperial family meant you had to shine brighter than anyone in order to gain acknowledgment and acceptance.

Rikuson trotted back to his office to find a messenger waiting outside. “A letter from Kae Province, sir,” the man said.

He gave Rikuson a small box—hardly a letter, in Rikuson’s estimation. The box was kept shut with a string tied in a decorative bow. He’d often received such letters in the capital. A variety of esoteric rules governed how the string was to be tied, and once undone it couldn’t easily be retied.

There was a knack to undoing these bows, and Rikuson possessed it, but to be perfectly honest, at that moment, he didn’t have much energy for such things. Instead he grabbed a knife and simply cut the knot.

Topmost in the bundle was a sheet bearing a wildly stylized L, a playful little touch Lahan liked to add to his correspondence.

Lahan was Lakan’s nephew, so they were often working toward the same ends. Rikuson had thought of Lahan as more of a friend than a colleague, but in the end, he reflected ruefully, they had only ever talked about work.

“At least he knows what he’s doing.” Lahan was a numbers man, and he had furnished Rikuson with exactly the data he wanted.

For rice, each tan would yield about 150 kilograms, roughly enough to feed one person for one year. Of course, it could be stretched if the rice was mixed with other foodstuffs. There were detailed calculations of how the yield would be affected if they added in wheat, soy, or potatoes. Furthermore, Lahan indicated how readily each could be preserved, the liquidity of the various crops, and even the current market prices.

“I was afraid he would just try to foist his potatoes on us. Guess I owe him an apology.”

Lahan’s father grew potatoes, but they didn’t keep as well as rice or wheat, and Lahan’s family was presently trying to develop ways to make them last longer or otherwise process them.

The winding columns of numbers made Rikuson’s head spin. He had no doubt Lahan had organized them neatly, but it was a rare person who could look at a bunch of numbers and perceive the truth of things. Rikuson had become conversant with numbers as a matter of necessity, but for most people, the ability to parse prices at the shop was all the numeracy they needed.

Rikuson flipped vacantly through the pages. Most of it was sheer data, but one page bore an inscription: Interesting things will happen soon.

“I guess he knows,” Rikuson said.

Lakan would be coming to the western capital. Lahan had probably scrawled the note in hopes of giving Rikuson a little shock, but unfortunately for him Gyoku-ou had pulled the rug out from under his surprise.

Rikuson smiled as he put the letter back in its box. Then he picked up the tie he’d cut.

“Hmm.” Now he wished he hadn’t. He went through his drawers, hoping he might find something to replace it with, and came up with a piece of hemp cord that he tied around the box. As long as he remembered how he knotted it, he would know immediately if anyone had opened it and tried to retie it.

He placed the box in a chest on a bottom shelf and gave a great stretch. “Time for a little walk, I think.”

Yes, he was talking to himself much more these days. He’d heard of officials quitting their jobs because they’d been done in psychologically by desk work; perhaps he was going the same way.

First a tea party, now a walk. It might look to an observer like he was slacking at his work, but he was normally so diligent. They would just have to live with it.

“I wonder if I’ll be allowed to make the rounds outside one of these days.” This was something else his mother had told him: a merchant who doesn’t know what’s happening on the ground can’t sell anything. It was a long, long time ago now that he’d heard those words, but he still remembered them.

Maybe he could get them to send him to see the farming villages by claiming it was for a petition. He did a lap around the courtyard, pondering how he might explain the situation so that they would approve his expedition.

As he walked, he heard shouting. He took a detour, heading toward the voices, which he discovered belonged to some burly men. They seemed to be fighting; a group of men had formed a circle, and at the center, two of them were grappling with each other. Ah: they were wrestling.

The shouting men were all smiling and laughing; they were enjoying themselves. Rikuson remembered them all to be soldiers. The kerchiefs around their heads were all the same color, a shade of blue. From the colors of their sashes, he judged that they were all different ranks.

Rikuson ducked in among the men, trying to get a closer look at the match. When it was over, the victor turned out to be someone he knew well: it was Gyoku-ou. The man who had been sipping tea with him earlier was now winning a wrestling match.

Standing there sweating and laughing with his troops, he didn’t look like the ruler of an entire city. To those around him, he must have appeared as someone who shared the sentiments of those under him.

Rikuson swallowed heavily. He didn’t think Gyoku-ou was wrestling with his minions just to earn brownie points. He enjoyed it as much as they did.

Rikuson didn’t want Gyoku-ou to notice him. If the governor invited him to wrestle, he feared he might be snapped in half. The guilt he already felt at being out for a walk just because he wanted a break would compel him to take part.

He turned on his heel, determined to go back to his office. It suddenly seemed better to throw himself into his work than to try to get some fresh air. After all, he’d been sent to the western capital to help take care of the excess work Gyoku-ou couldn’t handle himself. The burden on Rikuson was great, yes, but it wasn’t as if the governor didn’t have his own job to do. Even this friendly moment with his soldiers doubled as an effective way of winning their hearts and minds.

Rikuson thought back to a play he’d seen a long time ago. In it, a general had spent the whole night drinking with his troops, a fleeting moment of enjoyment before they faced the battlefield, where they might be cut down at any instant. Gyoku-ou was much like that general. There were protagonists in this world and bit players. Rikuson understood that he was not one of the former.

In a land at war, his role would have been to die without doing anything of note. Here in this world of peace, it was to do odd jobs and miscellaneous tasks.

Gyoku-ou was different. He was a main character, at the heart of the action.

Not like Rikuson.

Rikuson heaved another great sigh.

“I suppose the western capital needs him.”

Gyoku-ou could steal the show in peace as well as war.