Chapter 17: Who Taught You?

Early October brought loud news.
Su Mingfeng, heir of the Pingnan Marquis house, fell suddenly ill and had to recuperate at home. Marquis Su Yu and his wife closed the doors to nurse their eldest. Remount affairs were set aside. The throne sent gifts and sympathy and sent a new hand to take the ledgers.
The capital mourned a rising star—young, gifted, fresh in office, merit on his belt, the road open wide—struck down by heaven's jealousy. Wait three or five years, people said, and even if he recovers, the court will have no corner left for him.
The streets saw tragedy. Some in the halls saw escape.
"That's not sickness," a sharp minister whispered. "That's dodging disaster. The Su house looked ready to burn—oil boiling—and they pulled the fuel from under the pot instead."
Word reached Shen Miao while she trimmed crabapple branches in the courtyard. At Guangwen Hall the heir's illness had become fresh gossip; fewer eyes followed her. She had a few rare quiet days.
"Miss has taken to flowers and dirt," Guyu laughed. "These crabapples are thriving."
Crimson petals against bleak autumn—almost alive. As empress she had learned to keep the inner palace breathing, win ministers for Fu Xiuyi, go to Qin as hostage, war with Lady Mei—most days lived inside fear and fight. When had she had leisure to clip branches and breathe?
"Do you know why they bloom so fierce?" she asked.
Guyu did not know why the question mattered, but answered anyway. "The steward brought rare seed from outside. Madam praised it—this variety shows best in autumn."
Shen Miao shook her head.
That was not the reason.
Even the cold palace had flowers beyond its walls—clusters of color over ground that was bone underneath. The brightest things in the world grew from the coldest roots.
The Su house had learned that. What would they do next?
She smiled faintly.
…
At the Pingnan Marquis manor, Mingfeng's courtyard was locked tight. Only kin and his personal boy could enter. Heavy medicine smell drifted out. The marquis refused visitors.
Xie Jingxing, as the heir's friend, had to call.
A Xie carriage stood at the gate while servants wrestled down crates of herbs—enough boxes to show how much the young marquis cared.
Inside the study, Mingfeng wore plain blue cloth. A little thinner, still sharp-eyed—no trace of a dying man.
Across from him, the boy in brocade frowned. "Dodging trouble?"
"Yes." Mingfeng sighed at his friend. "You see how hot our name runs. We've held remounts for generations—we shouldn't climb higher. Yet the throne doesn't press us down. It lifts us up."
"You earned merit," Jingxing said.
"That's the trap. Father and I were proud and blind to what sat behind the praise. Merit piled higher becomes disaster. You understand—I didn't, not while I stood inside it. Now the cliff is under our feet. We had to brake. One step later and we'd fall."
"Smart move," Jingxing nodded. "You'll rot at home a few years for it."
"If the Su name survives, years are cheap." Mingfeng's voice dropped. "Enough of me. What about you? Our houses rise and fall together. We've chosen the brake. Your house—"
Jingxing lifted a brow. "I don't take office. What can he do to me? One Lin'an Marquis title—the throne still fears the crowd's tongue."
Unlike Mingfeng, pushed early into the bureaucracy by Su Yu, Jingxing held only a idle post. A few campaigns with Xie Ding, names hung on him as the general's son. The throne might hate the Xies, but it would not gut a house whose heir refused the road.
"You think far ahead," Mingfeng said, almost smiling.
"Not for him," Jingxing said lazily.
Not for the throne—for his father.
His brow knit. "Still—how did you see it so fast? I warned you before. You laughed."
Mingfeng looked down, ashamed. "I was proud. Winning. I didn't want to hear it. This time my second brother saved us."
"Your brother?" Jingxing had been slouched in his chair. He sat up. Something odd flashed in his eyes. "That rice ball?"
Everyone knew Minglang was a fool. How could a fool warn a house? Had the child eaten the wrong medicine?
Mingfeng told the story—the lesson, the six characters, the father's face. "If not for him, we might have walked into slaughter."
"Accident?" Jingxing murmured to himself.
A child's voice piped from the door. "Brother, Mother sent cakes."
Minglang waddled in with a plate of flower-shaped pastries, round as a dumpling, crumbs on his mouth. He had clearly sampled on the way.
Since the warning, the house had changed policy. Even Su Yu, who despised the boy's books, now called him "destined for greatness," "clever," "wise in foolish dress." His mother fed him until he swelled another circle in days.
He saw Jingxing and shrank, voice smaller. He always feared his brother's beautiful friend.
He set the plate down, muttered, "Brother, I'm going," and turned to run.
A hand caught his collar.
Jingxing crouched—fine clothes, smile on a peach-blossom face, eyes ice. He ruffled the boy's head.
"Who taught you to say that?"
Minglang's eyes went wide.
"*When the cunning rabbit dies, the hounds are boiled.*" Jingxing smiled, wicked and bright.