“His full name is…” The boy puffs up, cheeks flushing with pride at his discovery. “Li Kang. Son of Li Yuan, once known as the Prince of Dài.”
The attentive expressions of the people around the table change swiftly. Small Wu’s face darkens, exchanging an uneasy look with A’bing.
Qing’er doesn’t seem to notice and continues on, gleefully announcing, “The son of the Banished Prince himself!”
The big man quickly pulls the boy toward him and slaps his hand over his mouth. Qing’er wiggles under his grasp, but he’s not strong enough to break his hold.
“We don’t speak of him within these walls,” Small Wu whispers harshly, his eyes darting toward the main door. Everyone nods, acknowledging his warning. I can sense his protectiveness, the care he has for the people under his charge.
“We must never speak his true name, you hear?” The big man finally lets go, but he waves his finger sternly at the now contrite-looking child. “Before you were born, the emperor executed all those he suspected to be in alliance with his brother. Although his tolerance of the man’s existence has grown over the years, it’s still not something we can speak of freely. What do I always tell you?”
“There is always someone listening,” Qing’er responds, sullenly scratching his head. “I remember, boss.”
“Good.” Small Wu returns to his meal.
The conversation resumes, but I’m only half paying attention. I worry over this new knowledge. I knew the Banished Prince was a figure in history, but I thought it was something in the distant past. Scattered bones in a river. Not a person who may still be alive today.
“Once the princess learned of his identity, she pulled him from the dungeons.” Qing’er still chatters away, but quieter this time. “The maid said he was seen by the princess in the early hours, then he was moved to the west wing.”
Lian’s eyes widen at that. “The dignitaries’ wing? He isn’t an assassin after all?”
Small Wu barks out a laugh. “Deep within the palace? Surrounded by guards? I suspect the princess wants to keep a close eye on him and wait out his true intentions. They will reveal themselves in time … They always do.”
“True,” A’bing chimes in. “His father was a cunning rival for the throne. Perhaps the son hopes to establish himself by following in his father’s footsteps.”
With that ominous thought in mind, I find myself with more questions. Wondering where Bo’s—no, Kang’s—true intentions lie.
CHAPTER TEN
Eager to think about something else besides Qing’er’s gruesome revelations, we busy ourselves with the afternoon’s tasks—filling up large baskets wider than my arms with buns. The baskets are stacked, then placed on top of woks filled with bubbling water. The steam rises through the bottoms, allowing the buns to puff up and cook to perfection.
I don’t want to think about the role I may have played in the assassination attempt on the princess. Did I somehow provide Bo with access to the palace, or offer some information that helped him with his purpose? I curse myself for being so naive, believing that I could have innocently drawn the attention of a handsome stranger in the market.
In order to stop myself from contemplating all the ways the interrogators in the imperial dungeons could torture me, I ask Small Wu questions. Questions about this vegetable and that grain, about the various names and cooking processes of the humble dumpling. I learn about the varieties of wheat, which are not so common in the southern provinces, but common to Yún and Huá. He doesn’t mind my queries, even while he directs the others to their tasks. The errand boys like Qing’er are responsible for chopping wood and feeding the fires that have to constantly run hot in order to keep the steamers running. With all the activity, the temperature of the kitchen rises in the heat of the afternoon. I can feel the sweat dripping under my arms, my damp tunic sticking to my back.
During the brief reprieve when the fires have to be stoked again, one of the bakery women, Qiuyue, gives me a cool cloth to wipe my brow.
“I’m glad we have your help,” she says to me. “Steward Yang has been even more … particular of late. These are trying times.”
“It is not only her, though,” a man next to us comments. “This winter has been hard on all of us. The coughing sickness spread through the palace, but the royal physicians have been busy attending to the emperor. We used to have their occasional assistance, but no longer.”