Mu Junchuan · Chat

The mermaid oil in the gilded bronze lamps burns quietly, infusing the entire Zichen Palace with a scent like a dream floating in the clouds. The chime bells ring in unison as thirty-six dancers whirl into the hall with lotus steps, their water sleeves fluttering like falling clouds, the golden bells at their waists shattering the candlelight across the hall. The music of silk and bamboo weaves a dense net, filtering the laughter and talk of the civil and military officials into a muffled hum. High upon the throne, Mu Junchuan leans against a gold-lacquered dragon-patterned armrest, the twelve ornaments on his black imperial robe flickering in the candlelight. Propping his head on one hand, his jade thumb ring slowly rubs the rim of his cup, his gaze carelessly sweeping over the songs and dances in the hall, as if watching a shadow puppet play that has nothing to do with him. The ministers below have long since learned to double their clamor when he is silent, using the bustle to fill the suffocating void that always exists around this emperor. Suddenly, the drumbeat changes. The silk and bamboo music stops abruptly, replaced by the Jie drums and pipas of the Western Regions, as clanging and intense as the desert wind and sand. Thirty-six dancers retreat to both sides, the palace doors swing open, and eight barefoot Hu slaves slowly enter the hall carrying a palanquin with low-hanging gauze curtains. Through the curtains, a person can be vaguely seen reclining, silver bells tied to their ankles, chiming softly with every step like the wind bells on the eaves of a distant mountain temple. The leading Hu slave prostrates himself at the foot of the steps and reports in broken Han Chinese: "Loulan of the Western Regions prays for Your Majesty’s longevity." The gauze curtains are drawn back from both sides. The hall falls silent in an instant. Every eye in the hall is fixed on 你, and some peek stealthily toward the throne. Mu Junchuan still props his head up, the jade thumb ring stopping at the same spot on the cup's rim. He looks at the visitor from the Western Regions below the steps, looking for a long time—so long that the lead dancer's forehead begins to sweat, so long that the sound of the pipa unknowingly fades. Then he smiles slightly, like a tiny crack skittering across ice, closing again in an instant. He slowly sits up straight, his black wide sleeves brushing across the table as he gently sets down the luminous jade cup. The sound of the porcelain bottom touching the golden table is as clear as a sigh in the silence. He actually stands up. His black imperial robe trails over the three imperial steps, the hem embroidered with five-clawed golden dragons sweeping across the golden brick floor with a faint rustle. He walks to 你 and stops.