The Ink-Stained Recommendation

Weng Tonghe moved through the dusty aisles of the Imperial Archives like a man in a dream. His new life was one of quiet, scholarly routine, a monotonous existence that was both a punishment and a strange sort of protection. He spent his days translating obscure Manchu edicts and compiling his great, meaningless history of the dynasty. His nights, however, were filled with a secret, terrifying purpose. He was a ghost, haunting the edges of the court, a conduit for a power he did not understand.

A junior eunuch from the palace arrived with a stack of documents for him, a routine delivery of cross-referencing material for his historical work. The eunuch bowed, deposited the stack on his desk, and departed without a word. Weng Tonghe began sorting through the papers, his heart pounding with a familiar mixture of fear and anticipation. He knew that somewhere within this pile of mundane reports would be a message.

He found them near the bottom of the stack: two sheets of calligraphy practice paper from the Emperor's study. The first was a mess, a long, formal title hopelessly smeared by a large, black ink blot. Weng Tonghe recognized the title as belonging to Grand Councillor Ronglu, one of Cixi's staunchest allies and her prime candidate to oversee the new naval office. The second sheet was clean, containing only a single name, written over and over in the Emperor's large, careful, childish script: Li Fengbao.

Weng Tonghe stared at the two sheets of paper. He did not know the name Li Fengbao, but he understood the meaning of the message instantly. This was another imperial pronouncement, delivered in the bizarre, deniable code he was now accustomed to. Displeasure for one, favor for the other.

His hands trembled as he took out the precious Duan inkstone and the special ink stick Shen Ke had provided him. He ground the ink, the familiar circular motion a calming ritual in his sea of anxiety. He composed a short, formal request for a meeting with Prince Gong, a matter of "historical clarification" for his work. Then, he took a clean sheet of paper, the one with Li Fengbao's name on it, and turned it over. He dipped his brush in the special ink and began to write on the blank side, his elegant characters flowing across the page.

To any observer, he was simply writing a letter. But he knew that the ink he was using carried a second, invisible message, a chemical ghost that would lie dormant within the fibers of the paper. His message was simple and direct: "I have received another sign from the source. It concerns the naval appointments. I must see you at once."

He sent the letter to Prince Gong's mansion via a trusted courier. The Prince, hungry for any word from his mysterious allies, granted the meeting immediately.

That afternoon, Weng Tonghe found himself once again in the Prince's formidable study. He presented the two sheets of calligraphy paper as if they were sacred relics.

"Your Highness," he began, his voice a low, nervous whisper. "These came from the Emperor's lessons yesterday. I believe they are… another message."

Prince Gong took the papers. He looked first at the blotched, ruined name of Councillor Ronglu. A slow, grim smile touched his lips. "It seems the Son of Heaven has a strong opinion of the Grand Councillor's character."

He then looked at the second sheet, at the carefully written name repeated down the page. "Li Fengbao?" He frowned, the name unfamiliar to him. "Who is this man? A minor clerk? Another poet?"

"He is a diplomat, Your Highness," Weng Tonghe explained, relaying the information Shen Ke had provided him. "He served for several years in the legation in France. He is said to have spent his time there not at parties, but in their shipyards and naval academies. He is an expert on Western shipbuilding, though he has no political faction and no powerful family to support him."

Prince Gong's eyes lit up. An expert. A man of knowledge, not of connections. A neutral party. He was the perfect candidate, a political weapon he could use to break the deadlock in the council. He looked from the paper to Weng Tonghe, a new level of respect in his gaze.

"Your masters are more cunning than I could have imagined," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "They have not just identified a problem; they have provided the perfect, unassailable solution."

He then looked at the back of the page, at Weng Tonghe's own calligraphy. "Your handwriting is exquisite as always, Grand Tutor. A true pleasure to read." He saw only a formal request for a meeting. He had no idea of the true message hidden invisibly between the lines. The communication system was working perfectly.

Weng Tonghe bowed, relieved to have completed his dangerous task. "I am merely a humble servant, Your Highness."

"You are more than that, Tutor," the Prince said, clapping him on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that made the scholar jump. "You are the voice of reason in this madhouse. You are essential."

Weng Tonghe left the mansion feeling a strange and unfamiliar emotion. It was not just fear. It was a sense of importance. He, a disgraced scholar buried in the archives, was now a pivotal player in the greatest political struggle of the era. He was the secret link between the throne and the most powerful prince in the empire. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Prince Gong, now armed with his new ammunition, prepared for the next day's council meeting. He held the two sheets of paper in his hand. They were more powerful than a memorial signed by a dozen ministers. They were not just a recommendation; they were a sign, a piece of physical evidence that seemed to represent the very will of Heaven, as expressed through its chosen vessel, the Emperor. Cixi and her vipers could argue with a prince, but how could they argue with a sign from Heaven itself? He felt a surge of confidence. The tide of the battle was about to turn.