Beasts in Fine Clothes

Lu Changfeng swept his gaze over the character riddle and understood it at once.

The clues seemed circuitous, but they pointed straight to the heart of the matter: remove the "bird" component from "phoenix," and what remained was "ordinary." As for "ordinary birds cannot see a true dragon's form," it combined wordplay with the dismantling of characters: "ordinary without bird" yielded 几; add the "dragon's form"-evoked through the shape of a crawling serpent-and the result was "wind."

To him, the answer was almost immediately obvious.

His thoughts turned, and he instantly realized that the real difficulty of this challenge probably lay not in solving the riddle, but in composing the poem afterward.

It had to capture the essence of wind without using the word "wind"-a formidable test of quick wit and poetic vision.

"Now this is rather interesting..."

Lu Changfeng raised an eyebrow. Underestimating my Three Hundred Tang Poems, are you?

Seeing him ponder, the attendant maintained his smile, though a barely perceptible glimmer of understanding passed through his eyes.

Following the usual procedure, he pointed toward an empty writing desk nearby and said evenly, "Young master, if you can unravel the mystery, you may use that character as your theme and compose a quatrain on the spot. Those are the rules. If..." Before he could finish-before the words "if you need time to consider, you may wait a while" had left his throat-Lu Changfeng had already stopped looking at him and walked straight toward the desk.

The movement silenced the murmured conversations in the hall.

Everyone's gaze converged on him.

So quickly? Had he already solved it-and even thought of a poem?

Qing Dai, too, was slightly taken aback.

She knew how gifted Lu Changfeng was. His line about snow weighing upon green pines still rang in her ears; he was certainly not someone who shot arrows without a target. Yet seeing him so eager to meet Luo Qingge stirred that inexplicable bitterness in her heart again. Her delicate brows drew together unconsciously, her lips pressed tight, and her expression grew several shades colder.

Lu Changfeng seemed entirely oblivious to the reactions around him.

He picked up the brush, dipped it lightly in ink, and swept it across the sheet of rice paper laid out before him.

His brush raced like dragons and serpents, flowing like drifting clouds and running water, without the slightest pause.

He did not write down the answer, leaving only four lines of verse.

Loosening autumn leaves to fill Chang'an, urging spring blossoms to grace jade rails.

Crossing the river, it rolls up a thousand layers of snow; entering the bamboo, it plays the chill of ages.

The lines were simple and unadorned, yet they captured wind's invisible power and myriad forms to perfection!

Four lines, four scenes-not a single mention of wind, yet every word was wind!

When the poem was finished, silence descended over the hall once more, then erupted into heartfelt cheers!

"So that's it! The answer is 'wind'!"

"Combine Ji with the 'dragon's form,' and of course you get wind! Ah, why didn't I think of it? I was so close!"

"A fine poem! Exquisite! It fits the theme perfectly."

"Such quick wit! I'm impressed!"

"What a day this is! First Song Tan solved the sun riddle, and now another gentleman has solved the wind riddle. Perhaps we really will have a chance to hear the Zither Immortal play today!"

Discussion sprang up on every side. All eyes rested on Lu Changfeng, their initial scrutiny transformed into pure amazement.

After reading the poem, the attendant bowed deeply, his manner more than ten times as respectful as before. "Your talent is extraordinary, sir. This humble servant is deeply impressed! You have passed the first challenge. Please follow me to the second floor!"

Under gazes filled with envy or admiration, Lu Changfeng followed the attendant up the stairs to the second floor.

Qing Dai, who had followed silently behind him all this time, now felt like a lake disturbed by a falling stone, unable to regain its calm.

Trained from childhood and well versed in letters herself, she naturally understood the poem's brilliance.

Her master's talent was like an awl in a pouch: its point could not help showing through. She should have shared in his glory, yet the thought that such verses had been composed to meet another woman felt like a faint sting in her heart. She could only lower her head further and follow closely.

The second floor was utterly unlike the noisy first floor, more spacious and elegantly serene.

There were no partitioned rooms here; it resembled a refined painting gallery.

A painting hung in the most prominent spot on the wall, seemingly depicting the moon palace.

Within it, the heavens stretched high and distant, the moon shone cold, and the mortal world lay faint beneath a sea of clouds, creating a vast, boundless atmosphere.

Before the painting stood a young scholar in a brocade-blue scholar's robe, tall and straight, with handsome features and the innate aloof pride of a son of an eminent family.

He was the man everyone had been discussing earlier-Song Zhiwen's nephew, Song Tan.

Rice paper lay spread on the desk before him, and the ink had been ground. Yet he had held his brush poised for a long time, brows tightly knitted, while the paper remained blank. Clearly, the second challenge had stumped him.

Hearing footsteps, Song Tan looked up with some displeasure. Seeing the attendant lead an unfamiliar scholar upstairs, he swept his gaze over Lu Changfeng with the impatience of someone interrupted and the critical scrutiny scholars reserved for their rivals.

The attendant stepped forward and spoke quietly to Song Tan, briefly explaining how Lu Changfeng had easily solved the first challenge and composed a quatrain on the spot. Surprise flickered in Song Tan's eyes, only to be eclipsed by still greater arrogance.

He set down his brush and pulled his lips into an ambiguous smile. Cupping his hands toward Lu Changfeng, he spoke with a hint of probing and barely concealed competition. "You've arrived at just the right moment, my friend. I am Song Tan. I've pondered for a long time without finding a worthy line. Since you solved the character riddle so swiftly and possess such nimble poetic talent, you must have some insightful thoughts on this painting as well? Why not let us witness your marvelous brushwork, so we may 'learn' a thing or two?"

He placed slightly greater emphasis on "learn." It sounded humble, but concealed a challenge.

Lu Changfeng could not even be bothered to lift his eyelids, completely ignoring Song Tan's petty designs. I'm here to hear music and admire a beauty, not squabble with you over a woman or play these games of scholarly contempt.

He turned directly to the attendant beside him. "What are the rules for the second challenge? Are we to compose a poem for this painting?"

Seeing himself utterly ignored, Song Tan's forced smile froze. His expression darkened, and his fingers tightened slightly around his folding fan.

The attendant was accustomed to the undercurrents between scholars. Lu Changfeng's directness surprised him somewhat, but he welcomed the peace and promptly replied with respect, "Precisely, sir. This painting was created by the tower's mistress herself and is called the Taixu Moon Realm Painting. The second challenge requires you to contemplate its atmosphere and compose a poem. Only a poem that accords with the painting's realm and captures its spirit will pass."

Only then did Lu Changfeng properly turn his attention to the Taixu Moon Realm Painting.

The moon hung high within it, spilling its clear radiance everywhere. A sea of clouds surged like waves, while below, the mountains and rivers of the Nine Provinces stretched in every direction. Its wondrous perspective made the viewer feel as though they stood above the nine heavens, looking down upon the mortal world. A sense of transcendent solitude and vastness swept toward him.

This perspective... this atmosphere...

Quite extraordinary.

Lu Changfeng marveled inwardly, recalling what Chen Jing'an had said: the Moon-Gathering Tower had powerful backing. Rumor had it that the peerless artistry of Luo Qingge, the "Zither Immortal," bore traces of the secluded Heavenly Music Sect, and that its roots might lie with Zhao Yeli, the "Zither Saint" of the late Sui!

Now it seemed those rumors were probably true.

If she were not the disciple of a great master, Chang'an's powerful nobles would not abide by her rules; without a sublime artistic inheritance, she could not have created such a vision.

Lu Changfeng was becoming increasingly interested in the tower's mistress, the Zither Immortal.

Meanwhile.

On the third floor, inside the Deep Clouds Chamber.

Incense curled through the air, shutting out the clamor below.

Dressed entirely in white, Luo Qingge stood by the window like an immortal maiden from the moon palace.

In her hand was the poem on wind that Lu Changfeng had composed on the spot, just delivered from downstairs.

"Loosening autumn leaves to fill Chang'an, urging spring blossoms to grace jade rails. Crossing the river, it rolls up a thousand layers of snow; entering the bamboo, it plays the chill of ages."

She recited it softly, a trace of appreciation passing through her eyes. "Simple and unadorned, yet its entire vision comes alive. He has a keen and graceful spirit."

Beside her sat a woman in a fitted black outfit, a short blade at her waist.

The woman's features were striking and valiant, her bearing naturally free-spirited and capable. She was Yan Mingxiao of Chang'an's Constables. She came from the mysterious Embroidered Shadow Pavilion, which had long maintained ties with Luo Qingge's Heavenly Music Sect, and was one of Luo Qingge's few close female friends in Chang'an.

"How is the investigation going?"

Luo Qingge set down the sheet of verse and asked softly.

Yan Mingxiao lifted her teacup for a sip, then shook her head helplessly, a hint of weariness between her brows. "We have no leads whatsoever in Zhang Shouzhuo's death. The poison is exceedingly strange; we still can't even identify it. Those old fellows from the Imperial Medical Office and Medicine King Valley are arguing loud enough to bring the heavens down. Following the vine to the melon and finding the poisoner will be harder still!"

She waved a hand as though to dispel her frustration. "Enough. Let's not discuss unhappy things during the Ten-Day Recess. What about you? It looks lively enough downstairs, and I hear you have an engagement tonight as well? You certainly keep busy."

"Princess Taiping has summoned me to an elegant gathering. I have no choice but to attend..."

Her expression unchanged, Luo Qingge walked to the zither stand and lightly brushed her fingertips across the strings, producing a scattering of cool, clear notes. "As for the Moon-Gathering Tower, what else can I do? My master always says the mortal world tempers the heart, but day after day, most of those I meet wear masks of virtue and borrow elegance to adorn themselves. I truly don't know what sort of heart this is supposed to forge."

Yan Mingxiao laughed. "Haven't some people passed your challenges? Cui Shi? Song Zhiwen?"

Luo Qingge remained impassive, a barely perceptible trace of mockery curling her lips. "Their poems are indeed excellent-brocade prose, every word a pearl. Unfortunately, the better their poetry, the more disgraceful their conduct appears beside it. One fawns on the powerful and sells out his friends for advancement; the other curries favor with influential eunuchs, even forcibly claiming his nephew's line, 'Year after year, the flowers remain alike'... Such talent merely dresses their beastly hearts in finer clothes."

At that, Yan Mingxiao sighed softly and set down her teacup, sympathy and understanding in her gaze. "Yes. How many men in Chang'an truly come for your music? What they worship is the gilded signboard of 'Chang'an's Number One Zither Immortal,' and this... flesh of yours that sets their imaginations wandering."

Her words were blunt and cutting.

Luo Qingge was silent for a moment, then looked again at the decorated sheet bearing the poem on wind. "Let's not speak of them. What do you think of this poem?"

Yan Mingxiao leaned over to read it and raised an eyebrow. "Very good. At least he's far better than Song Tan, who can do nothing but spill bookish quotations. What, does this one seem a little different?"

A faint ripple passed through Luo Qingge's eyes. Looking toward the floor below, she said softly, "Let's see how he performs in the second challenge. If his poem truly captures the atmosphere of the Taixu Moon Realm Painting..." She paused and looked out the window at the clouds gathering and unfurling. "Then I wouldn't mind granting him a tune!"

Below the chamber, Lu Changfeng had already picked up the wolf-hair brush, its ink about to touch the rice paper.

"The old hare and cold toad weep at heaven's hue; the cloud tower opens halfway, its walls slanting white..."