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Elisabeth Waters sold her first short story in 1980 to Marion Zimmer Bradley for The Keeper’s Price, the first of the Darkover anthologies. She then went on to sell short stories to a variety of other anthologies. Her first novel, a fantasy called Changing Fate, was awarded the 1989 Gryphon Award. She is now working on a sequel to it, in addition to her short story writing and anthology editing. She has just turned in Sword & Sorceress 23, to be published in November 2008. For more information, see her website at www.elisabethwaters.com.
About “The Sixth String,” Elisabeth writes, “The qin (Chinese for “musical instrument”), also called the guqin (Chinese for “ancient musical instrument”), has been played in China for thousands of years; there are paintings of Confucius playing it 2500 years ago. A well-educated scholar was expected to be able to play it skillfully, and a person who couldn’t play it frequently hung either an instrument or a replica on the wall of his study so as to appear cultured.
“When Voyager was launched in 1977, the classic qin composition, “Flowing Water,” was included on a CD of Earth’s music. (Now if Voyager can just find aliens who can work a CD player...) The guqin was also played in the Opening Ceremonies for the 2008 Olympics in Beijing.
“There is a great deal of symbolism associated with the qin: it measures 3’ 6.5” (Chinese feet and inches) to symbolize the 365 days in the year, and it has 13 inlays representing the 13 lunar months. The upper surface is rounded, representing the sky; the bottom is flat and represents the earth. The qin was traditionally played in small gatherings of close friends, for a qin strung with silk strings is a very quiet instrument. Most musicians playing it today use metal strings, along with amplification.”
On a more personal note, she adds, “The guqin is taught orally from master to student (traditional guqin tablature does not include anything that tells how long a note is held or what the tempo of the piece should be). I would like to thank Wang Fei, who taught me everything I know about the guqin, her teacher Li Xiangting, his teachers Zha Fuxi and Wu Jinglue, and all of their teachers back through the centuries. Knowledge is a most precious gift.”
––––––––
“He said that he loved me above all else in the world. He said if I agreed to marry him, he would build me a palace of gold.” Jia looked around at her reception room. Walls hung with yellow silk were interspersed with polished hardwood pillars. She paced across the carpet, ignoring both its softness and the beauty of its design, to the window. It was raining outside, and the water dripping off the points of the tiles that edged the roof formed a beaded curtain. The wooden latticework in the window prevented anyone outside from seeing her, but it did not obstruct her view of the palace grounds—or the other portion of the women’s quarters. “He did not,” she snapped, “say anything about becoming Emperor and taking three thousand concubines!” She ran her hand along the smooth wood of the pillar next to the window. Wood was her element, and usually touching it soothed her, but at the moment she was feeling much too frustrated.
“Does he really have three thousand of them?” her maid Li asked. “He’s been Emperor for only six years!”
“Three-thousand-fourteen,” Jia replied, “with more coming in every month.” She stopped pacing to sit on a barrel-shaped sandalwood stool and stroked the wooden body of the qin on the matching table before her. “I’ve been keeping track.” She played a soft ripple of notes on the silk strings strung the length of the instrument. Jia was small with a deceptively fragile appearance, which she wielded—along with her beauty—as a weapon in the undeclared warfare of the harem. She regretted, however, that her small hands gave her trouble with the fingering of some of the classic repertoire for the qin.
“But it would take him more than eight years—assuming a rate of one concubine a day—to go through them!” Li protested.
“It’s supposed to be more than one each day, but you’re forgetting the ‘more of them every month’ part.” Jia sighed. “I’m twenty-eight years old now. I haven’t been with him often enough even to conceive, let alone bear the son he needs. And I do want at least one child of my own.”
Li paused, obviously trying to find a delicate way to phrase her next question. “How many children does he have?”
“Fewer than one would suppose, given the number of concubines,” Jia replied. “Also, all the children he has are daughters. Sooner or later he is going to need a son.”
“All of his children are daughters?” Li thought about it for a moment. “You must be correct; we would have heard had anyone borne him a son. But surely the odds...” her voice trailed off as she looked suspiciously at the qin. “What did you do?”
“Almost nothing,” Jia shrugged. “I invite them to my little gatherings, and I play the qin. Concubines are chosen for their youth and their yin essence. All I have done,” she played a series of notes, plucking delicately at the strings, “is to enhance their yin. Perhaps that results in their having so much female energy that they give birth only to daughters. Who can say?”
“Who indeed?” Li agreed, smiling. “Certainly not I.” She contemplated the qin. “Are certain strings more yin than others?”
“Not really. The qin originally had only five strings: one for each of the five elements—which have both yin and yang aspects. The sixth string was added by the first Zhou Emperor to mourn the death of his son, so it is sorrowful. The second Zhou Emperor added the last string to inspire his soldiers, so the seventh string is strong.”
Li chuckled. “That would be your string, then. You are definitely the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
Jia smiled wistfully. “Would that make the sixth string—the childless Emperor—my husband? At least the first Zhou Emperor had a son to lose.”
“Who can say?” Li said, echoing Jia’s earlier remark. She rose to her feet and bowed. “By your leave. May the Emperor soon tire of his concubines and return to you, and may Heaven grant you a son.”
After Li was gone, Jia bent her head over the qin, trying different fingerings on the sixth string. “Help yourself, and Heaven will help you,” she murmured.
She rose and moved to her writing desk, where she took out her ink-stone, brushes, ink, and paper. Using her best calligraphy, she composed an invitation to the Emperor to join her for an evening of poetry and music, carefully scheduled for three days hence: the night she was most likely to conceive.
~o0o~
The next day the nü-shih returned to court, bringing another group of concubines with her.
“How many does she have this time?” Jia asked Li, who had brought her the news.
“Only five.” Li was obviously trying to be optimistic about the matter.
“That brings the total to three-thousand-nineteen,” Jia remarked, “although I suppose that at this point, five more doesn’t make much difference.”
“It is her job to arrange the Emperor’s sex life,” Li pointed out.
“True. And she is so good at it—such enthusiasm...such dedication...”
“Such desperation?” Li asked archly. “I hear their ages range from nine to twelve.”
“That young? Really?”
Li nodded.
“Has she already collected every maiden in the Empire old enough to have sex? I know that in theory the younger a virgin is, the better her yin will nourish the Emperor, but these won’t be old enough to do him any good for years.” Jia frowned. “Considering the incredible number of concubines gathered for the previous Emperor—I don’t think that man ever did anything but search for immortality in the bedroom—not that it did him any good....”
“And all of them were sent to monasteries after his death,” Li pointed out. “Concubines are not allowed to go from the harem of one Emperor to the next.”
“She needed to start all over for the new Emperor.” Jia had not taken that into account in her calculations. “Maybe she actually has collected every suitable maiden and is now reduced to gathering children for the future.”
Li didn’t even try to answer that. She picked up a brush and ran it through Jia’s hair, and Jia sat silently, beginning to relax under the rhythmic strokes—at least until the nü-shih was announced.
The nü-shih bowed upon entering, for technically the Empress did outrank her. But rank did not overawe the woman in charge of the Emperor’s—and by default the Empress’s—sex life.
“I hear that you have plans for the Emperor tomorrow night,” she began.
“The Emperor and I have plans for an evening of poetry and music,” Jia said. “I do not believe that simple poetry and music fall within the scope of your duties.”
“As long as he confines himself to poetry,” the nü-shih said. She scowled at the scroll hanging in the place of honor on the wall. It was the first poem the Emperor had written for Jia, and she kept it displayed to remind everyone, including herself, that of all the women in the harem she was the only one the Emperor had chosen himself.
“Always remember,” the nü-shih said firmly, “that young virgins give him their yin energy and make him stronger, while you take his yang energy and weaken him.”
“That is the only way he will ever get a son to succeed him,” Jia pointed out.
“You could adopt a son for him.” The nü-shih smiled sweetly. Jia knew that the woman would really prefer that the Emperor divorce her for childlessness—as if that were Jia’s fault! The nü-shih had firm control over the concubines; if one of them replaced Jia, the nü-shih would have much more influence.
“Adopt? From what pool of candidates?” Jia asked. “It’s not as if he has a son by another woman. Nor does he have siblings to give him nephews. In any case, now is not the time to speak of it—I hear that you have a group of children to settle in.” Jia gave a smile as sweet—and as false—as the other woman’s and dismissed her.
~o0o~
Jia spent most of the day resting. Her plan, born from Li’s remark about the strings, would take a great deal of energy. She couldn’t do anything during the daytime while there were people about and she would certainly be interrupted, but once she had supposedly retired for the night, she would be undisturbed.
Alone in her bedroom, she worked far into the night, composing a piece that brought out the energy of the sixth string, while using the audible music to hide the imbalance. When she found tears for the son she had never borne welling in her eyes, she knew that she had succeeded. “But it’s not enough for the Emperor to want a son,” she said softly to herself. “He has to want to have a son with me.”
She carefully removed the string from the qin. This particular string, she recalled, was approximately two years old and had broken only once so far, so there was plenty of length remaining. She took a ceramic teacup, filled it almost full with hot water, then took an embroidery needle, passed it through a candle-flame, and pricked the fourth finger of her left hand. She squeezed six drops of her blood into the water, and then dipped both ends of the string into the cup. As the ends of the silk soaked up the water and her blood, she prayed to Heaven. When she removed the string from the cup, the ends were a pale pink, but the color became indiscernible a thumb’s length from the ends. By the time she had replaced the string on the qin, there was no visible difference between it and the other strings, save for the usual variation in diameter.
~o0o~
Privacy was almost impossible to come by anywhere in the Imperial Palace, but the Emperor sent his guards to await him at the end of the hallway—after they had inspected Jia’s rooms, of course—and Jia dismissed Li after she had brought in the tea and spice cakes.
“I have a new poem, if you would like to hear it,” he said once they were alone.
“I would love to hear it,” Jia said promptly. His skill with poetry was one of the things that had won her heart when he was first courting her. She listened appreciatively to his newest poem, and countered with one of his old favorites, accompanied by the soft sound of the qin. He picked another of his poems and asked her to play accompaniment to it; while he could play the qin—a man with any pretense to education was expected to play it—her playing was superior to his. Of course, she did get more time to practice.
They shared music and poetry for several hours before she said diffidently, “I have a new piece for the qin, if you would care to hear it.”
“By all means,” he said.
She bowed her head over the instrument and played, concentrating only on the music, not daring to look up until the very end. She blinked the tears out of her eyes and saw that his eyes held tears as well. He walked to her side, took her hand, and led her to her bed.
~o0o~
Nine months later Jia held the newborn Crown Prince in her arms. “Help yourself, and Heaven will help you,” she whispered to him.
