The fête of the Frontier Gagers' Consortium set a template for future receptions in this, the last summer of the Summer Palace. Oh, there were particulars in which the occasions differed. The fête of the Green Morning in the north was host to many tearful reunions and much companionable roistering, capped by a ritual contest between the King and a champion-designate (Dambreaker Lin Zigsa, ripe in raw beaver pelts, with fists the size of skulls) that was no less enjoyable for its foregone conclusion. The fête of the Guild of Allegiant Furriers featured, in lieu of musical and athletic spectacle, wheeled specimens of taxidermy poised and proportioned to astonish—a maned bear as big as a hut; two five-tailed blue foxes frozen in an eternal duel, the teeth of one in the neck of the other, trickles of red glass weeping from the bite; a creature that the furriers swore up and down was a chusrin, though Lin Lagba claimed that a true chusrin had the forepaws of a lion, and pointed out the seams where its crocodilian front was sewn onto the fishtail that formed its back. The fête of the Brewers' and Distillers' League, for its part, was canceled by the honorees at the last minute, and both soldiery and scullery ate feast-food until it spoiled. It was during this period of unexpected bounty that Lin Ben and Chesa again encountered one another in the Softwood Hall, a minor artery of the palace, paneled in a parquet of all the softwoods known to grow in the logging colonies: She carrying a tray, he walking the corridor back and forth with a slow, strange vigilance.

As one, they stopped on seeing one another. "The Yellow," said Lin Ben, "this is unexpected."

Chesa's mouth quirked a bit. "I fear a trap," she said, "but I must know: One commonly hears the red and white aspects of the Many-Colored Deity invoked together, in supplication for the good; less commonly, the blue and black, forfending evil. Lin Ben, why the yellow?"

"You are right to fear a trap," said the boxer, "and here it is. The yellow aspect of the Many-Colored Deity is that whose ambit is prosperity. And that is what I see before me: Riches beyond measure."

"Your flattery needs honing, boxer," said Chesa. "Yellow is for gold, and the value of gold inheres in its fungibility: One ounce is as good as another."

"A stinging hit, to be sure. Here is a counterpoint: The value of gold inheres in its rarity. It is like itself, of necessity—but unlike anything else."

"Let me see if I understand. Your invocation of gold is meant to suggest, not a similarity to some amount of gold—which, we agree, do we not, would be exchangeable with any other hoard of equal size—but, rather, a similarity to the category of gold, glittering and unique."

"A fair summary; but what about my interlocutor is not fair?"

"Hist," said Chesa gravely, "no further wordplay, until we have determined whether the present play is fair. And in the spirit of fair play, I grant your distinction—but it invites comparison to the tale of Phog the Miser. Do you know it?"

"He amassed all the world's gold," said Lin Ben, "then starved, for fear that trading it would dilute its value."

"Granted, then, that the value of gold inheres in its rarity; still, that value can only be realized when it is given away. Is that the fate you have in mind for your interlocutor, Lin Ben?"

"Phog the Miser died, as all men do," said Lin Ben, "and women too. But he died happy."

At this, Chesa could not suppress a swift smile. "I remember a different moral to the tale."

"You taught me skepticism for the morals of folk-tales. But, here, I have proof for my exegesis: For, if gold shares aught with Chesa, the possessor of the world's gold perforce owns the world's happiness."

"My interlocutor begs the question."

"That and more."

"Ah, Lin Ben," said Chesa. "You turn a woman's mind to tinctures and tisanes."

"Come again?"

"Now, now; do not make me speak of sheaths."

"I assure you, mademoiselle, it is the farthest thing from my mind," said Lin Ben, for lack of options.

"Thank you. And now—" Chesa bobbed her tray, her expression apologetic. "The Mistress' wine grows cool, her hors d'oeuvres dry."

"I yearn to keep you from your duties," said Lin Ben, "but I will not. Only tell me this—whence hails your family, and what is your father's name?"

"My father is a logger from a town called Rushar, not far from the border,” said Chesa. "He is pleased to call himself Chetan, son of Champo. To what use will you put this intelligence?"

"I may wish to send him a communiqué,” said Lin Ben. 

"A bold maneuver," said Chesa, "but doomed. He cannot read."

Lin Ben paled a bit, but pressed on. "Well, then, perhaps I will raise a matter with him in person. When the time is right."

In writing period drama, one cannot fail to be guilty of romanticizing the subject, which is to say, the era. Life is permeated, by definition, with the contemporary; but the past is safely tucked away, and we do not seek it out except from love. And how not? The Summer Palace, outpost of an eldritch royalty on an ex-frontier that now plays host to automobiles and heated hostels! The untamed forest, now transmuted into beams and planks, its apex predators starved or driven out or embalmed for display! The fetishistic strictures of social intercourse, so tightly cinched that the mere mention of a "communiqué" might warm a woman to her core!

In the spirit, then, of romance, we demur from any lengthy digression on the dour politics of sexual oppression, which is to say the oppression of the sexes, on the basis of sex, but also—inextricably!—of sex itself. Should you have, at this point, discovered a hankering for such a digression, we commend you to one of the many necessary tracts on the subject, perhaps Datang of Shrastaka's pointed Manual for the Management of Fencers or the elegant Regrets of Kadzati. But, for present purposes, we wish merely to acknowledge that we have presented Chesa, up to this point, as a personality whose main strengths are a swift intelligence, a mordant wit, and a level head, and that her response to Lin Ben's rash offer might seem odd in this framework of character. In compensation, we note that she was also, at that time, quite young and poor, and she had been raised in a logging colony, where scullerymaiding in Rassha was viewed as a great step up in the world relative to the local options, all of which converged on the kitchen and the brood-bed. 

In any case, we have justified enough; the events are true and must speak, in the final analysis, for themselves. But perhaps the reader will now understand it better when we say that Chesa gave Lin Ben a look of not entirely benign amusement as she informed him of the following:

“A day’s furlough will take us to Rushar and back, with room for an hour’s conversation. I trust you can settle the matter in that time?” 

Greatly daring, she continued on her mission, nearly brushing Lin Ben’s arm as she walked past with her tray. She did not dare look back to see his face.

Mme Jampa berated her, to be sure, for tardiness and cold wine, but it was not so bad as all that—for the flush in Chesa's cheeks could have been one of mortifaction as easily as elation, and fear, as easily as joy, could have given her legs so restless that she shifted from side to side throughout the rodomontade. All the same, though, it was just as well that she waited until she was dismissed to let her smile spread.