The official casts a cursory glance at my scroll before waving me in. Those of us admitted are crowded into a small courtyard. I catch a glimpse of the palace through a door that has been left slightly ajar. A splash of greenery at the entry, ornamental shrubs and decorative trees. The polished sheen of a railing leading down a path. To come this far and be denied entrance … I cannot even consider that possibility.
“If I could have your attention!” Another court official climbs onto a makeshift stage in the middle of the courtyard. “There are one hundred and ten shénnóng-shī recognized in the Book of Tea. To ensure you are indeed a shénnóng-tú under their tutelage and able to enter the palace, we will have you pass a simple test of your skills.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd as we look at each other, uncertain.
“If you will form a line,” the official calls out, “we will begin.”
It does make sense to test for those who may have gotten the scroll through illicit means—such as myself. My palms grow damp. I try to wipe them on my tunic furtively.
A short girl with a long braid coiled on top of her head bumps into me. She whispers an apology and a question. “What do you think they will be asking of us?”
“I don’t know.” I stand on my tiptoes and strain to see. The competitors are lined up at a tent beside a second gate, and what happens inside is obscured from view.
“Step aside,” one of the young men walking by says with disdain. He wears an umber tunic, with detailed embroidery in blue thread on the collar and sleeves someone must have toiled over for hours. “A pair of t? bāo zi.”
I stare at him, seething at the insult. At the implication that we’re so poor, we must resort to eating dirt to sustain us.
The girl next to me bristles in turn and hisses at him. “What did you say?” she demands.
He only laughs. “The kitten from Yún thinks she has claws.”
A quick glance at the guards standing at the perimeter reminds me not to start a fight, even as I would like nothing more than to push him into the mud where he belongs. I shuffle along next to the girl, head down.
“You’re from Yún province?” I murmur, making conversation so I do not put my fist through that arrogant face. I know little about Yún, other than that women who are from there usually wear their hair in a long braid, over the shoulder or pinned in a coil on their head.
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I’m actually from the ‘dirt-poor’ plateaus of Kallah.” I notice her warm copper complexion, a sign that she spends more time under the sun than the shade.
“I’m Ning. Of the ‘backward’ Sù province.”
“I’m Lian. Tigress of the North.” She snarls, then her ferocity dissolves into giggles. I laugh, too, glad I’m not the only competitor who has traveled from afar to attend the competition.
It isn’t long before we find ourselves at the front of the line. I duck under the lifted door of the tent first. Inside, a man in an official-looking robe sits behind a desk, a guard standing on either side. On the wall above his head unfurls the banner of Dàxī and the great length of the imperial dragon.
“Show us your belongings.” The official gestures, and the guards advance.
“Wait!” I try to protest, but they lift the box off my back and take the sack that holds the few items I own.
“We must do this to ensure the safety of the royal family,” the official continues, with an uninterested flatness to his voice.
“Surely this must be too much.” I gather my clump of clothing in my arms while they continue to rummage through my personal garments. My face burns as I hastily shove everything back into the sack. “Is everyone so paranoid in the capital?”
The younger guard gives me a curious look. “Have you not heard the news? There has been an increase in assassination attempts in the past month. Someone even dared to attack the princess in broad daylight at the Spring Festival!”
“You!” the official’s voice booms. “We do not speak to the participants.”
“Apologies.” The guard ducks his head and drops to one knee.
The official mumbles something that does not sound too friendly under his breath and waves at the other guard to open my mother’s shénnóng-shī box. My stomach twists at the thought of another person handling this most precious possession, but I cannot refuse a representative of the emperor.
The beautifully carved redwood chest is lacquered to a shine and gleams even in the low light of the tent. The lid is held in place with a leather strap, which opens to reveal nine compartments. Three on either side of the largest compartment in the center, then two long compartments above and below. The long compartments house my mother’s porcelain teacups and bamboo utensils, while the smaller compartments contain an assortment of ingredients.