Chapter 19: Asking the Dao Part 2

That glance by the carriage still lingered in her heart; she never knew what she had done wrong. And just then, Shen Wen’s hand was already extended.

Jiang Man froze—but Huailou had reacted before her, both hands taking Shen Wen’s forearm.

The light boat swayed; Jiang Man barely kept her feet, and turned away to lift the curtain of the cabin, her face burning red.

She hadn’t looked like someone offering an arm at all—a right hand reaching out, palm upward, like a beggar asking for Shen Wen’s hand.

Jiang Man gently bit her lip—then feared biting the rouge askew, and could only endure.

Ordinarily a new maidservant spent a long apprenticeship under her elders before ever attending the mistress; she, though, had learned nothing yet and committed every embarrassment first, and needed Shen Wen herself to rescue her.

It was Shen Wen’s consideration, then—she had offered an arm.

If Shen Wen had truly meant for her to become her personal attendant at once and extended her hand instead, what would Jiang Man have done then?

The bow swung around; though there was no wind, a few breezes rose. Shen Wen did not call her in to attend her, so Jiang Man stayed outside the cabin—and now, seeing clearly the buildings on the hillside, she suddenly understood.

No wonder Female Scribe Shen was dressed so plainly, and had asked her that question in advance.

They were entering a Daoist abbey.

One hardly entered a place of quiet purity for that kind of business. They had risen at dawn—for what, then, had they come?

Jiang Man couldn’t help speculating, and the heat the lake wind had carried away only moments ago crept back around her, faint and unwelcome.

The boat moored somewhere that was clearly not the main gate—there wasn’t even a mooring post on the bank, and the boatman had to tie the rope to a tree. A young Daoist waited high above; seeing them, he came down the stone steps three steps at a stride and saluted. “Devotee Shen.”

Shen Wen nodded. “Zhang Changzai sent you?”

“Yes. My master says a distinguished guest arrives on the second day of the second month—but he is still in Closed-Door Cultivation, and may not come out until after noon.” The young Daoist led them upward; seeing Jiang Man, his expression flickered oddly, but he recovered at once. “This devotee is a new face.”

Jiang Man gathered her robes and dipped her head slightly. This was a Daoist Master speaking with her mistress; Jiang Man could hardly presume to answer.

Shen Wen paid him no heed, passed the memorial archway, and walked straight toward the back of the halls, saying as she went, “Fetch Zhang Changzai.”

“It’s still early…”

“Your master could calculate that I’d come today,” Shen Wen shot him a glance. “Can he not calculate when? Go fetch him, and brew two cups of tea—go easy on the salt.”

“Your humble Daoist never puts in salt.” The Daoist wagged his head, gave Jiang Man a hasty salute, and said, “Devotee, go on ahead with the Female Scribe; I’ll brew your tea.”

Jiang Man noticed how familiar they were with each other, without the slightest reserve, speaking with total ease—and while she was marveling, hurried to return the Daoist’s salute.

The abbey was solemn and grand; its incense offerings must flourish. Yet all the way, apart from a Daoist sweeping the grounds, they met no one.

The last great hall fell behind, and the view opened suddenly onto a stone-paved clearing, with only two single-room structures at its far end. Shen Wen pushed open a door, paused, and said, “Huailou will wait outside.”

“Yes.”

Jiang Man followed silently. Inside there was no divine image; a hanging scroll faced the door, unopened; on the incense table stood stick incense, freshly lit—less than two inches of ash, not yet broken.

Shen Wen went left; Jiang Man turned and closed the door behind her.

Someone in the room had already brewed tea.

And the one who had brewed it was pushing a cup toward Shen Wen, saying, “Taste.”

Shen Wen gathered her skirts and knelt, one arm on the low table; though her face was all impatience, she took the tea and sipped after all.

“Neither merit nor fault,” she said.

“Devotee Jiang,” the old Daoist raised his head, “you sit too.”

“My thanks for the Daoist Master’s kindness.” Jiang Man curtsied; seeing that Shen Wen did not stop her, she knelt quietly at a position slightly behind her side.

This must be the Zhang Changzai Shen Wen had spoken of. Yet he had called to her just now in a tone that made her half imagine she had visited this place many times—some familiar-faced devotee whose surname the abbot had remembered.

But since entering she had never given her name, nor had Shen Wen spoken it.

A strange feeling settled over her. The room was full of pure and quiet incense, and in this moment Jiang Man felt, as it were, the regard of the divine: as if all that now passed lay within heaven’s design, past and future threaded on fate.

Jiang Ling’s letter had mentioned several remarkable figures of Lin’an, among them a “Thousand-Gold Divine Diviner Zhang,” abbot of the Supreme Clarity Palace—surely the Daoist Master before her.

“Move over, will you.” Zhang Changzai said suddenly.

Shen Wen’s teacup stopped mid-motion; she set it down on the table with a sulky clack and made no answer—but she did shift a little to the left.

Jiang Man knelt forward and murmured, “My thanks, Female Scribe.”

Only one cup of tea sat on the table, at Shen Wen’s place. All the tea things were beside Daoist Master Zhang, while before Jiang Man lay a blank sheet of paper, a long inkstone serving as paperweight at its left, already charged with ink.

Jiang Man felt entirely at sea—and Shen Wen was right beside her.

Too close.

The room was thick with Jiangzhen Incense, yet beyond the cold fragrance of patchouli she could somehow still catch the plum-blossom scent that hung about Shen Wen. Perfume sachets were always faint, and Shen Wen’s were of the finest quality—how could Jiang Man possibly pick her scent out of a room full of burning incense?

Jiang Man only buried her head lower.

She was far too nervous today.

“Read her face.” Shen Wen said suddenly. “Jiang Xiaojiu, sit up straight.”

“Yes.” The answer came too fast—her nerves were written plainly on her face. She raised her head. Shen Wen, cold as ever, had a slight frown between her brows, as if some worry troubled her: still sulking over that cup of tea, no doubt.

Zhang Changzai was another matter. At first glance his was an utterly unremarkable face; only in meeting his eyes did Jiang Man notice a faint ruddy glow, his gaze holding spirit—languid, yet with an unseen force in it, as if he and this humble room had grown into one thing.

When she had looked too long, Jiang Man averted her eyes, then raised them again. Zhang Changzai’s expression never changed, but he was not looking at a person—only at some object, an old book.

“Can’t you see anything?” Shen Wen’s tone was light, impossible to tell whether jest or earnest. “I’m drinking my tea; hurry up. Or shall you feel her bones?”

Zhang Changzai withdrew his gaze and looked at Jiang Man no more. His body stooped as if feigning sleep. “No need.”

“Then brew another cup, and quickly.”

“No hurry, no hurry.” Zhang Changzai spoke slowly, looking at Jiang Man with eyes different from before—this time with a measure of sincerity, at last like a man appraising a person. “Devotee Jiang, why not a character instead—divine a whole sentence.”

Jiang Man started. “I don’t know what the Daoist Master would ask.”

“What is it you seek?”

Jiang Man turned sideways and saluted lightly. “I would not presume to ask, Female Scribe.”

Shen Wen gave her a sidelong look. “He’s asking you.”

Jiang Man was silent a moment, and could only say, “Daoist Master… this devotee seeks nothing.”

Zhang Changzai, hearing this, shook his head slightly and said nothing more, only gestured toward brush and ink: “Grant me a character, then.”

“Yes.” Jiang Man bowed her head, took up the brush, dipped it, using the inkstone’s rim to scrape the excess, her movements very slow.

She truly didn’t know what to write.

If it was a question of what she sought, Jiang Man’s wants were far too many. But the dead do not return—no prayers to gods or Buddha could undo that. As for the rest, she had already done all she could, yet a single log cannot prop a falling house; nine times in ten, the decisions lay in the hands of the person beside her.

Did she have a request to make of her?

Jiang Man set brush to paper.

Shen Wen suddenly laughed. “You really do love this ‘Bai the vulgar’ dearly.”

Jiang Man’s face burned again. “I show my clumsiness.”

Her eyes darted aside of their own accord to avoid Shen Wen’s—and in doing so, she collided with Daoist Master Zhang’s gaze.

His expression was faint as water; looking over, it had become that object-appraising stare once more.

Jiang Man had never moved among famous men, but this Zhang Changzai’s manner was so otherworldly—surely the fruit of long cultivation, of some genuine attainment of the Way. He and the young Daoist before him, master and disciple both, treated Shen Wen with utter informality. Was this simply the way of their school?

“Well?” Shen Wen said.

“Some small insight.” Zhang Changzai nodded—then addressed Jiang Man. “The devotee’s hand is dignified and graceful; she is surely a person of fortune. In days to come she will turn ill luck to good, I have no doubt.”

Jiang Man curtsied. “My thanks, Daoist Master.”

Shen Wen turned her head, considered her briefly, and softened her voice. “Go on. Pass the time here somewhere; take Huailou with you. No need to wait on me.”

“Yes.” Jiang Man knelt-walked backward three or four steps before slowly rising, curtsied to the two of them. “Xiaojiu withdraws.”

Zhang Changzai gave a slight nod.

As for Shen Wen, she left her only a back.

By the time Jiang Man and Huailou had gone well out of earshot, Zhang Changzai finally brewed Shen Wen’s second cup of tea.

The whisked tea of the Supreme Clarity Palace was famous. The pressed tea cakes were the common sorts found in every Lin’an abbey, no more novel than the Imperial Palace’s own tribute teas—yet the flavor was simply different. Among Lin’an’s refined circles the rumor was that it lay in the choice of charcoal; Shen Wen thought it was simply that the palace’s Daoists had skill in their hands and whipped the foam finer than anyone else’s, and that was all.

She, Shen Wen, drank only freshly boiled tea; exceptions were few, and the Supreme Clarity Palace was certainly not one of them.

The foam slowly sank; the cup, plainly, was on the verge of ruin.

Shen Wen delayed and delayed; the man surnamed Zhang did not press her.

Smoke curled; another inch of ash accumulated in the censer.

Shen Wen looked at the utterly familiar handwriting on the paper, still unable to tell waking from dream, and at last, with courage painstakingly gathered, said, “Is it her?”

“It is.”

Her head came up sharply. “Then it was not my dream?”

“Heaven’s designs are hard to fathom; this Poor Daoist cannot say.” Zhang Changzai looked over, eyes bright and piercing. “But the hexagram and the birth-chart were settled before; now, having seen her face and these seven characters, it is beyond doubt.”

Shen Wen breathed in the scent of Jiangzhen Incense. “Then, if not for some immortal letting me glimpse heaven’s design in advance…”

Zhang Changzai closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “The Female Scribe, I fear, has been reborn.”

Shen Wen laughed in sheer disbelief. “The year of Renzi, when I came to find you, didn’t you refuse to believe it, come what may?”

“With the truth laid bare before his eyes, what does this Poor Daoist’s belief or disbelief matter?” Zhang Changzai met her gaze, his expression grave. “Today the calamity fated in your life has come before you, and this Poor Daoist has one word of counsel.”

Shen Wen was silent a moment, and before he could speak: “I will keep my distance from her. Once this whole business is investigated, I’ll find her a good family, and let the karma end there.”

Zhang Changzai shook his head. “Now that it is confirmed to be her, this Poor Daoist ventures one presumptuous word.”

Shen Wen’s brow arched. “Is keeping my distance not enough?”

“Not enough.” Zhang Changzai said. “This person should be killed.”