Chapter 23: Clashing Wits

Under Shen Wen’s gaze, Jiang Man felt herself a small boat.

She had struggled and fought in the lakes, drifting where the current took her—and then all at once she had been swept into the Yangtze. The great barrier nearly tore her apart, into fragments beyond finding. And yet, trembling, Jiang Man had turned her bow upstream.

If she could not swim against the current, then her one small skiff, by enormous fortune, might still be carried up by the flood itself.

Jiang Man looked at Shen Wen.

Her disquiet swelled the instant their eyes met—but Jiang Man’s will was set. Holding her breath, she took one step forward.

She let her lashes fall slowly, her manner all gentleness, and said softly, “I wish to share the Female Scribe’s burdens.”

Shen Wen’s smile deepened. Stroking her lip, she studied her a long while, speaking very slowly, almost to herself: “I truly did underestimate you, Jiang Xiaojiu.”

Then her expression melted in an instant; when she raised her eyes again, joy and anger were past reading. A degree of coldness entered them, and first she said nothing at all.

Jiang Man felt her heart hoisted into the air, hanging on nothing.

She bit her lip, and held her gaze.

The look of one who surveys all creation from on high returned to Shen Wen’s face. The corner of her mouth curved faintly. “As for where you’d be useful—there really aren’t many places. What you can do, anyone can do. So tell me, Jiang Xiaojiu: by what right do I take you up?”

“I do not know.” Jiang Man met her eyes stubbornly. “But the Female Scribe keeps Xiaojiu at her side; there must be a use. As it is I draw pay for nothing—though I serve in the study, much of the time I only cost my mistress trouble and my fellows labor. I am ashamed before every one of my two meals a day.”

Shen Wen looked at her. “And in your view, what use could you be put to?”

Jiang Man rose, all expression hidden behind her sleeves, and bowed with gathered robes. “I am at the Female Scribe’s entire disposal.”

Shen Wen laughed. “Your legs are shaking.”

Jiang Man paused.

It was true.

Both feet trembled faintly; however much strength she summoned, her legs simply would not obey. Jiang Man could have died of shame—but she was petitioning Shen Wen for a post, asking a favor of her; she could hardly afford to simper now.

So she set her teeth, pressed one hand over the other, forced herself steady, and said with lowered head, “I am overcome. I have failed—”

“Sit down first.” Shen Wen’s lashes lifted; though her manner was languid, the interruption carried a pressure past all argument. Only when Jiang Man had sat again did she continue, “Before a soldier can kill on the field, an army must be fed a thousand days. However modest my talents, I don’t lack for attendants. Some people can manage a hundred affairs; some can manage one thing well. I have no need of a master of all trades from you. If you’re no hand at conversation, keep it hidden, and that’s enough.”

Her gaze settled on Jiang Man, drawing a line as clear as a blade: “But a vase, beyond beauty and talent, must still have some duty of its own. Jiang Xiaojiu.”

“Yes.” Jiang Man answered—she understood already, yet would not volunteer so much as one word.

She wants her to become a vessel of worth.

“Then tell me: what is a vase’s duty?”

“To answer the Female Scribe,” Jiang Man said, “I believe that beyond being looked at, a vase is, in itself, a vessel—a container.”

“Good.” Shen Wen nodded. “Composing elegant phrases on demand is not your work. But when others speak—what classic they cite on the surface, what they truly aim at underneath, whether there’s a meaning between the lines—if you can’t hear it, then that container of yours will hold nothing but a gust of wind.”

Watching carefully for the depths of Shen Wen’s meaning, Jiang Man assented. “I obey the Female Scribe’s teaching.”

Shen Wen propped her forehead, glanced outside, and picked up the cloak with her left hand, arranging it. “Flowers set in a vase are arranged for the sake of a painting’s spirit. Arranging flowers and tending bamboo—you must have done such things. But the mood of arranged flowers rests first on the work of the four seasons: only with the plants of the four seasons does a person’s intent have somewhere to lodge. That intent, lodged in the flowers, becomes the language of flowers—and the language of flowers is spoken by no pair of dew-bright, fleeting hands.”

Shen Wen rose. “For flowers to speak, what carries them is the Beauty Gu Vase.”

Jiang Man went to take the cloak, her face faintly warm, eyes lowered away from Shen Wen, dressing her in it with care.

So she was to be placed outside, gathering word for her.

This matched exactly what Jiang Man had guessed. Her lashes fell; she stepped aside and said softly, “Xiaojiu will be that vase, a Wind-Listener for the Female Scribe.”

Shen Wen’s head tilted slightly; a moment later it turned back, her eyes gone to some scenery no one could say.

When Jiang Man next stole a glance up, Shen Wen was looking only at the lakeshore, saying as she did, “From now on you’ll follow Huailou and learn the rules. Huailou is thorough—steady, proper, leaving nothing unattended. You’ll be at my side for years yet; if you want a model for conducting yourself in the world, Huailou is a good one.”

Jiang Man looked toward the bow—how much of this had the wind carried off, she couldn’t say—and saw Huailou curtsy; Jiang Man lowered her head and returned the courtesy.

“Whatever my study holds, anything on the shelves you may read. What’s in the cabinets, if you need it, best ask Huailou or Sijiu first.” Shen Wen went on, then paused and added, “Wu You comes to the Hidden Osmanthus Garden on the first and fifteenth of each month. Whatever books you lack, ask him for them; put it on my account.”

Jiang Man had not expected such an arrangement, and felt an inexplicable stirring. She bowed. “I never imagined the Female Scribe would think so highly of me. I—I truly have no way to repay it.”

The boat drew up to its mooring. Shen Wen walked ahead, a smile at the corner of her mouth too faint to catch. Then she cleared her throat, spoke very fast, very low—so low Jiang Man nearly thought she’d imagined it.

“You can learn all you like—I’m not raising your wages.”

Jiang Man caught the thread of jest in it, and slowly went red.

So she could say such playful things, too?

The three of them had reached the far shore of West Lake. The boatman bowed and saw them off without following. Jiang Man saw, in the distance, the carriage and horses from that morning, and followed Huailou behind Shen Wen—wanting to look around, yet not daring to stare freely.

To have come out at all, and now to be returning to the carriage—any claim that Jiang Man wasn’t curious about West Lake’s scenery could only be a lie.

This spot was livelier even than the area around Qianhu Gate. Beneath the gate, stalls and sheds raised by merchants of every kind stood thick as a forest; the spring cold still bit, yet the crowds had not thinned in the least. Many boats lay along the shore, of every size, all of them costly—perhaps because spring had opened, and the great families were vying to take the water.

Jiang Man’s eyes went, without her willing it, to a cluster of young men dressed as scholars.

Jiang Ling had several close classmates in Lin’an—Imperial Academy students, and others like him who had come to the Provisional Imperial Capital from elsewhere to study. The Metropolitan Examination was near; examination scholars from every region were gathering in Lin’an Prefecture. Might there not be someone among them who had heard word of her brother?

Jiang Man knew she should not hope—yet the hoping gaze had already gone out of its own accord.

Jiang Ling was tall and striking; if he were truly here by West Lake, Jiang Man would know her own brother even in a straw rain-cloak.

The hope she should never have harbored came, in the end, to nothing.

A shadow fell across her.

Jiang Man stepped back hurriedly, made out who it was—and a chill rose abruptly in her chest.

The chill had come quietly, but it slowly surrounded her, then bound her fast. Jiang Man felt she could not break free; she wanted to slip past its edge and could find no way.

By her usual habit, she would have long since dropped her eyes away from a stranger’s gaze.

Jiang Man did not dare.

To look away now might look like propriety—but it would in truth be her own willfulness.

And Jiang Man was precisely the one who dared not be willful.

Shen Wen’s face was mild, a trace of smile still at her lips, laughter even in her eyes—but the moment she looked over, no words needed—the moment she looked over, Jiang Man could only hold her breath.

As if a single breath could let the cold into her body, Jiang Man’s heart stirred, and she understood at once.

She has misunderstood.

“Spotted the son-in-law you mean to seize from under the examination list?” Shen Wen was smiling.

“I would not dare.” Jiang Man answered too quickly. “Female Scribe, just now—”

“If you’ve taken a fancy to one of them,” Shen Wen cut in ahead of her, “I see no need to wait for the list to be posted. Strike first and control; strike second and be controlled—you understand that principle.”

Jiang Man lowered her eyes, deliberately waited a while, and only when Shen Wen said nothing more did she explain—her voice slower than usual: “I thought of my brother for a moment, and so breached etiquette. I beg pardon.”

“Is that so?”

She raised her eyes slowly, looking at her, straining all the while to ignore the cold in Shen Wen’s gaze. “Not half a word of falsehood in it.”

“Whatever schemes you make for yourself are no affair of mine.” Shen Wen turned away. “Only—don’t let them delay proper business.”

Jiang Man’s lips parted; she wanted to explain—then remembered the gulf between mistress and servant, and swallowed it. She answered low that she understood, and fell in behind Shen Wen with Huailou once more.

As they neared the carriage, someone came hurrying from far off, in what seemed to be their direction. Jiang Man slowed; seeing Huailou stop, she knew it must be an acquaintance.

The newcomer wore superb satin. The sky was overcast today and his clothes dark, yet the hidden pattern of his straight-collared jacket was still distinct—such luxurious dress was rarely seen even on the road. He was handsome and imposing, seemingly in his prime, moving swiftly, yet wearing no ornaments. Jiang Man thought: this must be a capable man who manages affairs for some high official.

Only when he drew near did Shen Wen’s head turn slightly toward him.

“Female Scribe Shen.” The man saluted with cupped hands—half a bow only.

Shen Wen nodded slightly.

Jiang Man was thoughtful. This man must be a commoner with no rank, yet Shen Wen treated him with a measure of courtesy—one could imagine the power of whoever stood behind him.

Her second uncle Jiang Feng, a County Magistrate in the capital region with real power in hand, had been slapped down at a single meeting—by contrast, one could not help thinking along other lines.

“My master is enjoying the lake at Fengle Tower. Hearing that his people sighted your boat, he sent this humble one specially to invite you.” The man said, “I carry my Household Master’s words: business broke up early today, and sitting alone is dreary. He begs the Female Scribe to come take a cup of tea and trade a few idle words.”

Shen Wen inclined her head slightly. “Bureau Director Zhen hardly entertains me with Fengle Tower’s own tea. Qu Chai—where did your master win tea this time?”

Qu Chai said, “Nothing escapes the Female Scribe’s discerning heart. My master matched teas against Prefect Liao and won three excellent Small Dragon Tea Cakes—set aside to drink alone; he can hardly bear to share them with anyone.”

“Prefect Liao?” Familiarity threaded Shen Wen’s voice. “Isn’t he still in Yangzhou? Reporting for duty already, and it’s only the second month?”

“He carries some confidential business.” Qu Chai dropped his voice; only fragments carried. “The Metropolitan Examination is near… the selection review…”

Shen Wen said, “I’ll pass on the tea. I spoke at length with the Bureau Director only days ago—everything said was said. I’ve nothing new to tell him. Let him enjoy the Qian Lake scenery alone.”

“My master kept back one tea cake, not yet ground to powder.” Qu Chai, hands cupped, said, “It can be boiled for tea.”

Shen Wen paused. “Has the water been set on?”

“The kettle waits on the brazier—it only wants you to start the tea.” Qu Chai glanced briefly at Jiang Man and Huailou behind her. “The Female Scribe travels light today. Why not walk to Fengle Tower, and afterward I’ll have a sedan ready to take you back to the Hidden Osmanthus Garden—most convenient.”

Shen Wen seemed to have changed her mind. “Go on ahead; I have a word or two to say.”

“Yes.” Qu Chai withdrew a proper distance and looked elsewhere, asking nothing.

Shen Wen said, “Take her to learn the roads. Send the carriage back first.”

Huailou froze a moment. “Yes.”

“No riding in the carriage—and no sedan either.” Shen Wen’s eyelids lifted. “If you tire, you may ride a sedan alongside.” With that she walked off.

Huailou and Jiang Man exchanged a look.

Jiang Man ventured, “Have I offended the Female Scribe?”

Huailou nodded. “I should think so.”

Jiang Man curtsied. “Then I beg Miss Huailou’s guidance.”

Huailou only knitted her brows slightly and shook her head. “This servant doesn’t know either. I fear I can’t help Lady Jiang there.”

And yet Huailou truly did send the driver back first, then led Jiang Man to a quiet spot by the lake and pointed out to her the landmarks beyond the city walls. Half of Jiang Man’s mind was still on Shen Wen, but Huailou’s words might never be repeated a second time, so she forced her thoughts down and committed everything carefully to memory.

Fengle Tower was a government-run great wine house, famous under heaven—Jiang Man had long heard of it. It occupied an enormous tract just outside Fengyu Gate, built against the lake, three stories high, its position superb. Its magnificence went without saying; scholars and refined guests gathered there constantly. It was a place where a thousand gold might be thrown away in a single throw—the taxes and special levies this one tower paid in a year probably came to nearly half the scale of the Jiang family’s whole business.

To sit drinking tea alone in such a place—this Bureau Director Zhen must be no ordinary man.

Jiang Man asked, “Might I ask where the Bureau Director Zhen holds his post?”

Huailou glanced at her and asked in return, “Where do you think the Bureau Chief holds his post?”

Jiang Man said in a small voice, “I know he’s a high official, but which bureau’s affairs he administers, I couldn’t say.”

Huailou said, “You were raised in the inner chambers, and in Jiangnan besides—no one can blame you. But never go asking such green questions elsewhere. Whatever you don’t understand hereafter, come ask me; don’t go making a laughingstock of yourself before others. If it reaches the wrong ears, that’s trouble.”

Jiang Man assented.

“As for this Bureau Director Zhen—there is no one in Lin’an Prefecture who doesn’t know him. The title ‘Bureau Chief’ means Administrator of the Bureau of Military Affairs—head of the Bureau of Military Affairs itself. You do know what the Bureau of Military Affairs is, I trust?”

Jiang Man went red and nodded. “My thanks to Miss Huailou for the lesson.”

Huailou only smiled.

No wonder they say she’ll be a Destined Treacherous Chancellor, Jiang Man thought secretly.

And that “Chancellor” of the “treacherous chancellor”—isn’t he off inviting Shen Wen to tea this very moment?