Chapter 654: Joint March (10)

The gate guard who’d vowed to escort us to our quarters strode across the vast trading estate with his chest thrown out, curiously triumphant.

Stick a banner in his hand and he could have passed for a victorious general returning from an impossible war.

Of course, hoisting a god on your back will do that—shoulders set broad, spine straight, each step so proud it seemed to stamp the earth.

Naturally, Qing—ignorant of the circumstances—merely admired the boldness of his gait.

And the destination? Odd.

We crossed gate after gate, deeper and deeper into the manor, until a great portal opened onto an expansive court.

Directly ahead, a plaque in bold strokes announced the building’s name:

Sacred Sun Palace.

Below it, hanging side plaques spilled out two lines:

The Only Radiance in the Cosmos—Seat of the Great Sun Sage-Deity.

Among the Three Thousand Worlds—the Supreme Excellency—Temple of the Coming Great Light.

To Qing’s eye, it was... a bit much.

Sun Palace? Sun Temple? That’s really what it’s called?

“What is this place? Some kind of shrine?”

“Not a shrine—er—uh—a guest hall.”

“Here? To anyone’s eye this is a building that enshrines someone.”

It was a shrine.

And the one enshrined was, at this very moment, standing right beside him.

The guard rushed to explain.

“Khmm—well—it can be used for that purpose, yes, but only when no one resides within. And now that the one who will reside has arrived, it is a guest hall...”

“Eh? A guest hall and a shrine? You only offer rites when there are no guests? How does that make sense?”

Qing’s bafflement was reasonable.

As if an inn, when the room is empty, doubles as a church nave or a monastery’s Buddha hall.

A shrine is, by definition, where a divinity is installed; even passing by out front you keep your bearing. Who brings guests into that?

No, if the guest hall comes first, does that mean you only carry the deity in when there are no guests?

“Uh—well—saving space, also. It’s a well-built guest hall, and it’d be a shame to leave it idle.”

“Seol the Bastard pinches pennies in the strangest places. I mean, sure—he’s not exactly the devotional type. But what is this, some local—ah, wait.”

Qing changed tack.

In the Central Plains, each region tends to have gods it favors; one of the famous ones goes big from time to time.

Usually it’s a Daoist immortal or a Buddhist figure, but sometimes a never-heard-of oddity—or a mash-up of many—secures a cult.

You could call them “local gods,” but never say that in front of a believer.

“Whom do you enshrine? You’re not—committing sacrilege or anything, are you?”

Asked by the odd “deity,” namely the owner of this “Sun Palace.”

“Absolutely not. We are using it for its original purpose; it is therefore perfectly natural that Your Ladyship reside here.”

The answer could not have been firmer.

The tone of one stating a fact with not a fleck of doubt; on that point Qing relaxed a little.

“Then, please rest at ease.”

“Mm? The room?”

“Pardon? Room?”

For a moment the two simply looked at each other.

The Sacred Sun Palace’s owner is the Celestial Majesty.

Thus the guard’s duty ended the instant they stepped into this magnificent shrine court.

From Qing’s side, though, given a “guest hall”—guest hall-ish at best, but still—a palace of a house this grand, if he didn’t even assign a room, what then?

“Ah! Yes! Since there are no other guests at present, you may use any room you desire.”

“Ah. Right.”

A little burdensome, but also delightful—like renting out the whole place.

The party moved to enter and set down their things in the Sacred Sun Palace.

And the gate guard, as if that were the most natural thing, followed right behind.

What? Wasn’t he the gate guard? Is he a guest too?

Didn’t he just say no one else was staying? Just now?

“Um—are you sure it’s fine to leave the main gate unattended?”

“It is fine. The task of attending upon Your Ladyship is ten thousand times more important than any gate. It is the top priority.”

Qing drew her own conclusion.

Apparently he wanted to hide from gate duty under the pretext of serving a guest and take it easy.

Of course he did.

Seol Trading Company—are we sure this is fine?

“Ah—Your Ladyship, this room is the best. If you would deign to use it, we would be most grateful.”

“Eh.”

He indicated, with both hands reverently, the great door centered at the corridor’s end.

In Central Plains architecture, that is the core—the most precious room.

Qing opened it and—uh, what is this.

Is this a room or a training yard?

The bed alone, planted square against the far wall, was the size of Qing’s entire cozy, desolate hut.

And even then there was so much space left over that the room felt barren and empty.

Even Qing—who habitually drifted from one town’s finest guesthouse suite to the next—felt a little cowed.

They call this the Sacred Sun Palace; turns out it’s a palace.

All right, a big bed is nice.

But what is all this space for, lying fallow?

Well, if fifty million faithful are to come and bow before the Supreme Excellency in person, you want room for a rush of prostrations, don’t you.

It’s a bedchamber and an audience hall for the Sacred Sun Palace’s resident.

“Ah—right. Azure-Sky Pavilion, was it? Can you eat there without a reservation? If not, any good restaurants? We thought we’d have an early dinner and get a proper rest.”

“Gasp—are you hungry! I shall arrange it at once! One moment, please!”

“Eh? Wait—”

Before Qing could catch him, the gate guard, face set in tragic resolve, vanished in a flash of lightfoot skill.

Even to Qing—recognized by many as bearing consummate lightness-skill—the man’s qinggong was no mere parlor trick.

He could have just gone and eaten.

Why run ahead to “arrange” things.

Qing returned the hand she’d raised, and set it back to Jayeo’s little back.

Then Peng Daesan, eyes gone dull, asked:

“I thought it strange already back in Jagwi. What in heaven’s name did you do to earn this treatment?”

“Friend of the founder, and... something like the co-founder’s daughter? You know Grandpa. He’s a bit dotty and thinks I’m his daughter. Long story, I’m playing along.”

“Even so, isn’t this excessive? Excess breeds discourtesy, they say.”

“They are a bit like this at Seol Trading Company...”

Qing is tough against malice, but to kindness she melts into a puddle.

So yes, it was suspicious—but all right, let’s call it what it is.

Lanzhou is the city—so Lanzhou people say—where the Yellow River begins.

In truth the Yellow River’s source is out there in Qinghai at Ahablapdalhaptak Mountain—the very mountain where Qing had torn up an array.

And along that watercourse, villages large and small run in a chain; so, the Lanzhou claim carries a fatal flaw.

Still, the phrasing dates to when Qinghai wasn’t part of the Central Plains proper, so you can grant a little grace.

At Lanzhou’s center, a great riverside tower that looks down on the Yellow River’s bends both upstream and down:

Azure-Sky Pavilion.

It used to be called Yellow River Tower.

This is how Central Plains folk name things.

A few years ago the owner changed, and the name changed with it; to be honest, Lanzhou still dislikes the new name.

Why strike “Yellow River” and call it “Azure-Sky”?

The Yellow River isn’t even blue to begin with.

Granted, Lanzhou’s sky is very blue.

But if the building’s owner does as he pleases with his own building, the townsfolk’s grumbling is air.

Local notables did try to jam the gears by exhausting their networks.

But in the Central Plains, “connections” are a rational system: the greater the benefit you provide, the higher the grade you are given—guanxi.

Thus the officials’ “difficulties” amid the rain of petitions turned into a higher rain of gold.

Have complaints, you poor commoners?

So, to Lanzhou people, one question burned:

Who owns Azure-Sky Pavilion?

Why strip “Yellow River” and give it some common name with “Azure” and “Sky”?

All they could infer was this: enough wealth to swallow a city’s signature landmark and make officials swallow their tongues.

And backing—if you stir up trouble, masters descend from somewhere.

In any case—

Azure-Sky Pavilion is Lanzhou’s finest restaurant.

And today, Azure-Sky Pavilion was the worst.

“Today’s service is concluded. We will refund your money; please depart immediately.”

“Mm? What?”

“Please end your meal at once and depart. We will return double.”

This was happening on the topmost floor.

“What the hell—do you know who I am?”

“We are sorry. Please cooperate.”

In any tower, the topmost floor is reserved for the choicest guests.

If you’re suddenly told to leave, will you meekly go?

Of course. They did.

“In that case, so be it. Come, let’s go.”

“They must have some urgent matter. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed. Indeed.”

Are the rich and noble magnanimous to that degree?

Or was it because Azure-Sky’s famed bodyguards—masters, one after another—came up and fondled their hilts?

No one will ever know the truth.

As soon as one table cleared, masters slammed into the seats.

Each seized a table and laid down the weapon that is a martialist’s life.

A seat-saving tactic so childish even kids wouldn’t bother.

Thus, anchored on a window seat, the allotment of tables settled.

The slightly higher-ranked cleared throats and pressed with looks for others to move.

Some held on, eyes trembling, pretending not to notice.

Then each clung to his table and began to clear it—personally.

They could not help it.

A golden chance to share a meal with the Celestial Majesty!

Thus nearly all the previous patrons vanished, and new bodies filled the room.

A few old patrons stayed on—faithful who’d come out for a rare dinner and found themselves in a dream.

All seats filled but one, and, curiously, dishes of slightly varying styles began to set onto the tables.

Azure-Sky’s own kitchen was preparing for the honored party; these dishes were bought in from nearby restaurants.

A strange scene unfolded.

The new patrons poked, prodded, and portioned the dishes, but not one of them put a bite in his own mouth.

How long did that go on?

Until all the disturbed dishes went cold.

Even so, a queer heat spread on the top floor.

And at last—

A small party stepped onto the topmost level.

Silence snapped through the room.

The woman with a child in her arms cocked her head.

“Ahem.”

Someone cleared his throat, loud.

Then, as if waking from a spell, people began the most awkward exchanges: “Ah, did you hear that story?” “I did. I heard it well.” “Is that so. That’s how it was. Yet how very so.”

They didn’t want to burden the honored one—yet they wanted to dine with her.

Let’s call it... working very hard for the privilege of sharing a meal.

If someone of later generations saw this, they’d probably rail that religion truly is the opium of the people.