The man obeyed and Il-han rose and drew the door shut so that the bees would not be disturbed. Then he sat down again on his floor cushion.
“A good omen,” he said to his guests. “There is honey to be had if we snare the bees.”
They laughed moderately in politeness and waited, a circle of gentlemen in white robes, their faces bland beneath the black hair coiled on their crowns. Il-han continued.
“Let us invite China to strengthen her armies in our city. With this new army we will silence the Japanese, now growing too strong under the Regent’s favor.”
“How will the Chinese restore order among us?” The man who asked this question was a scholar, one known to favor new ways and western learning.
“They need do one thing only,” Il-han said.
“And that one thing?”
“Remove the person of the Regent. Take him to China. Imprison him — not in jail, but in a house. And keep him there, perhaps forever — until he dies.”
He allowed his calm gaze to move from one astounded face to the next.
The boldness, the simplicity of this plan confounded those who heard it. They were silent, pondering what he had said, and he watched their faces. Doubt gave way to dawning hope and then approval. The older men thought only of the Regent removed and the house of Min returned and peace restored. The younger men thought of internal strife ended and room and time for new plans and ways.
“If you approve,” Il-han said, “then nod your heads.”
One after the other heads nodded. Il-han took up his cup and drank down the tea, and they all did the same.
“How will you do what you propose?” one asked when all had set their bowls down again.
“A messenger will be enough,” Il-han replied.
“What messenger dares to go on such a mission?” another asked.
“I know a man,” Il-han said.
Il-han spoke that same night to the young tutor, when all his guests were gone. “You are to leave at once for Tientsin. Here is my letter. I have signed it with the Queen’s seal. Yes, I have the seal! She gave it to me when we parted. Put it in the hands of our emissary in Tientsin. He is a Kim, as you well know — my cousin thrice removed. Let him read it and then ask how long it will be before the Chinese army can reach us. Tell him not too large an army — we are to be helped, not occupied! Four thousand men will be enough, or a few hundreds more to allow for death and illness.”
He opened the secret drawer in his desk and took out a small bag of rough dark linen. “Here is silver, enough to take you there and bring you back. Where will you hide the letter?”
“In the coil of my hair,” the young man said.
Il-han laughed. “Good! Then you must take care that no enemy beheads you.”
They parted and the next day when the tutor was missed, Il-han said only that he had sent the young man to the north to buy ginseng root to export to China. Since ginseng was valuable and the dealers in China were never satisfied, and its export was part of the business of the house of Kim, he was believed. Indeed, this ginseng root was a treasure for all physicians, for according to an ancient Chinese prescription, ginseng fortifies the nobler parts of man or woman, fixes the animal spirits, cures the palpitations caused by sudden frights, dispels malignant vapors, and strengthens the judgment. When taken over the years, it makes the body light and active and prolongs life.
“I am married to you,” Sunia said, “but you are not married to me.” The hour was past midnight. The house was silent. They were lying in their bed, in the quiet of the sleeping house. He had come into this room at the day’s end, determined to give himself wholly to his wife for the next hours. He had done what he could for his country and his Queen, and now he could but wait. He knew Sunia’s patience and tonight he needed her with all the richness and the simplicity of her being.
Without words, then, he had taken her into his arms and for a while they had lain in quiet. Then the deep tide began to rise from his innermost center, and with ardor he had fulfilled himself and her. She had first yielded and had then responded with such delicacy of understanding and such instinctive passion that he breathed a deep sigh of profound happiness. Was there ever such a wife, such a woman? She asked no question, she spoke no word.
Then, in the midst of his completion, she made this monstrous accusation. She was married to him, but he was not married to her!
He considered for a moment. In what manner should he reply? Should he be angry? Or witty? Or laugh? He chose to answer as though he did not believe her serious.
“Shall we make an argument?” he inquired, his voice indolent with content.
She sat up in bed and began to braid her long dark hair.
“There is no argument,” she told him. “I am speaking truth.”
“Then anything I say must be untruth,” he countered, “so what shall I say?”
“Nothing.” Her voice was small and far away and she was very busy with her hair. He waited until she had finished to the end of her braid and then he took her by the braid and pulled her back gently to his shoulder.
“Can it be,” he inquired, “can it really be that you are jealous of a queen?”
She hid her face against his bare flesh.
“Can you imagine,” he went on most tenderly, “can you for one foolish moment dream that I could ever take a queen into my arms and hold her as I hold you, and adore her body as I adore yours?”
She began to laugh. “No, but …”
The laughter died away and she still hid her face against his bare shoulder.
“If you will not tell me,” he said at last, “will you blame me if I say I do not know what you are talking about?”
She sat up suddenly and turned her naked back to him, a most lovely back as he observed, the spine straight, the waist soft and small, the nape delicate, the skin fair and smooth.
“There is more to a woman than body,” she said.
“Tell me what more,” he said, half teasing.
She looked at him over her shoulder.
“If you make fun of me, I shall not speak a word.”
“I am not making fun — I am only waiting.”
She was silent, stealing a look at him now and again over her shoulder to see if he were laughing at her. He made his face grave and he did not put out his hand to touch her.
“You never loved me — so—” Here she paused for the word she wanted to use.
“How?” he asked.
“So — so — so strongly as you did tonight. You were feeling something new. Why?”
“Nothing new,” he said, “only more. Remember that for many days I have had not one moment to think of you — or the children.”
“Something new,” she insisted.
He sat up. “The wonders of a woman’s mind,” he exclaimed. “The tortuous, twisting corridors in which she loses herself — and the man! Speak out, Sunia! Tell me what you are thinking. What have I done? Are you trying to tell me that I am dreaming of a geisha or one of the maids?”
“No,” she said, her voice a whisper. She got to her feet and went to the wall screen and opened it. Outside the rain was falling and she felt the mist against her face.
He went after her and closed the screen. “Are you mad?” he demanded. “Do you want to die?”
“Perhaps I do,” she said.
She sat down again on the floor cushion beside the low table and lifted the teapot from its quilted cover. She poured the hot tea in the bowl and took the bowl in both hands to warm them while she sipped.
“Be sensible,” he urged. “I have neither time nor heart for complexities between us. Have I failed you as a husband? Then I must ask forgiveness. But first I must know for what I am to be forgiven.”