The scholar bows. “This is the restricted section of the library. The chancellor has indicated that you are welcome to access any of the books here.” Chancellor Zhou must have agreed to provide us with aid at the princess’s behest.
Lian examines the shelves, selecting A Treatise on Northern Poisons and Herbology by a famous ānhé physician, Qibo. I select Língshu, a text penned by one of the great shénnóng-shī who visited the court of the Ascended Emperor, and a slim volume of poison interactions and toxin neutralization from Hánxiá. Even though I gaze longingly at works such as Discussion of Tea Cultivars of the Yún Region and On the Selection of Tea Ware for the Enhancement of the Drinking Experience, I select Recipes for Fifty Ailments, and on a whim, place Wondrous Tales from the Celestial Palace on top of it. I see Lian’s eyes linger on the title, but she does not criticize my choice of such a fanciful text, one that even the most superstitious citizen of Dàxī would dismiss as mythology.
Back in our room, we debate over the old texts, recording notes from the treatises written by the masters of the art, who seem to be in conflict as well. I am desperate to retrieve all the knowledge from these volumes at my fingertips, hopeful that an obscure ingredient in here is an antidote to the poison I am seeking. We learn of the rhinoceros’s horn, supposedly a counter to all poisons, but it is a rarity in itself, the beast found only in a distant kingdom. There is a mention of the black pearl of Lǜzhou, reminding me of Kang, but it seems to be an enhancer of the properties of certain ingredients rather than being a poison counter itself.
We continue to ask and answer each other, always circling back to the key questions for this challenge: How do we transform the jīncán and use it as a lure? And then how do we rid the bird of it?
I doze off, jerking awake to the sound of Lian singing a pleasant tune to the Piya, and the bird trilling back. The two of them have seemingly developed an affection for one another while I rested.
“Can you even bear to poison it?” I tease, and she flutters her hand at me in dismissal.
“You can do the poisoning, and I will do the saving,” she decides, and I am in agreement.
I read about how the Piya are fed their unique diet from birth, building up from seeds to insects, then to larger creatures, growing their awareness and their immunity. When they are old enough, they transition to human dishes, where they can begin to detect the poison present in food. I read about the five venoms—the scorpion, the snake, the moth, the toad, and the centipede. All of them condensed into the fabled jīncán, and something the bird should easily detect.
Later in the afternoon, Qing’er brings us our midday meal along with a platter of fruit and nuts. I experiment with a mild poison, a berry that irritates the stomach but is pleasing to the eye. The bird pecks at it until it opens, but then refuses to ingest it. Tricky creature.
While we eat our turnip cakes, dipping them in soy sauce and chilis, we continue to test what the Piya will eat. At home our turnip cakes are plain and steamed, but here in the palace there are bits of sausage and dried shrimp mixed in. The bird refuses the sausage but nibbles on the shrimp and bites of cake.
I glare at the bird in frustration as we continue to puzzle through this riddle.
“You shouldn’t overfeed it,” I say to Lian, who coaxes the bird with a grape. “If you do, it won’t have the stomach for the poison tonight.”
“Poor Peng-ge,” she sighs.
“Peng-ge?”
Lian laughs. “It’s a nickname given to boys in Kallah. I think it suits him.”
I can’t help but chuckle in turn, even as the daunting task looms ahead of us. We continue to debate while I stretch out on my bed and Lian continues to pace. Her muttering is now as familiar to me as the crackle of the fire and the ringing of the bells.
Another hour passes, the sun making its descent in the sky, approaching the time of the third round. Until the uncertainty inside me continues to grow and fester, until I cannot stand it any longer, and I throw the scroll I’m holding to the ground. Peng-ge and Lian jump at the sound.
“There’s nothing in these texts!” I grumble. “Nothing … nothing … nothing!” One by one, I toss the stack of books on my bed, until the last one knocks them all over with a satisfying crash.
“Feel better now?” Lian asks.
I grunt at her, arms crossed. We both stare at Peng-ge, preening himself.
“The bird will eventually develop a distaste for poison,” I say out loud, returning to the puzzle before us, hoping that this time we can unravel the problem, “and will refuse to eat what may harm it.”