Ye Qingyun was momentarily at a loss for words. He twirled the brush halfway around in his palm, then raised a hand and pushed Shuhe's head away.
"Go fetch some water."
Shuhe wiped his mouth and ran downstairs with the wooden basin, his feet thumping on the steps. The innkeeper cursed him from below, but he pretended not to hear.
Ye Qingyun turned back to the six poems.
The first two portrayed his hardship: entering the capital in ragged clothes, the lights along its avenues shining on his chilled body.
The middle two spoke of defiance: the old betrothal had been taken from him, but a man of humble birth would not bow.
The last two soared into the clouds: tomorrow he would take the stage and outshine the capital with a single stroke of his brush.
Together, they told the story of his journey from Jizhou.
He weighed down the three he had selected with a paperweight and read them through again.
With every line he read, the two red lanterns outside the Chancellor's Residence lit up once more in his mind.
Su Yao was already married.
She had married a wastrel prince.
Ye Qingyun closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, his gaze fell on the bamboo tube at his waist.
The ancient scroll sealed inside the tube gave off heat against his clothes. The warmth was faint, but enough to steady his palm.
Three months ago, he had still been copying legal petitions for others in Jizhou, his hands too frozen to hold a brush.
Now he stood in the capital.
Shuhe returned with the water, his footsteps a little lighter than before. A middle-aged man in a brown robe followed him.
The man stopped outside the door without entering. He held a wooden box in his hands and wore a courteous smile.
"Young Master Ye, forgive my unannounced visit."
Ye Qingyun turned the three poems over, concealing the writing.
"And you are?"
The man cupped his hands.
"I am an aide to Lord Zhou. My surname is Tian."
At the mention of Zhou, Ye Qingyun raised his eyes slightly.
"Zhou Wenyuan?"
Aide Tian bowed a little deeper with his hands cupped.
"Indeed. Young Master Ye had already heard Lord Zhou's name back in Jizhou. Clearly, you pay close attention."
Shuhe set down the basin and stood behind Ye Qingyun, his little eyes circling over the wooden box twice.
Ye Qingyun did not invite him to sit.
Aide Tian did not mind. He set the box on the edge of the table and opened it, revealing a silver ingot and a sheet listing the poetry gathering's proceedings.
"Lord Zhou took pity on Young Master Ye for traveling so far to the capital. He feared that, as a newcomer, you might not know the rules of the poetry gathering, so he sent me with a copy of the proceedings."
Ye Qingyun looked at the paper without reaching for it.
"Why is Lord Zhou helping me?"
Aide Tian pushed the sheet forward.
"The capital's literary circles have seen no new faces for years. Your three quatrains from Jizhou reached the Hanlin Academy, and Lord Zhou praised them after reading them. He said, 'This young man has the backbone of a pine in winter.'"
Ye Qingyun tapped his fingers on the edge of the table.
The backbone of a pine in winter.
It was pleasant to hear.
He picked up the proceedings and looked them over. His brows twitched.
"I'm going last?"
Aide Tian nodded.
"The Hanlin Academy's people go first. Their style is steady and suited to warming up the gathering. After them come nothing but nobodies. Young Master Ye will go last, just in time to give everyone something fresh to see and hear."
Shuhe muttered beside him, "Then aren't they just setting the stage for you, Young Master?"
Aide Tian glanced at Shuhe but did not contradict him.
Ye Qingyun put the sheet down.
"What else?"
Aide Tian took a second sheet of paper from his sleeve and held it beneath his palm, without fully offering it.
"One part of the final judging involves answering a prompt on the spot. The five judges will set the topic at the last moment, and the participants will compose their answers on the fly."
Ye Qingyun looked at the paper beneath his hand.
"What's that you have there?"
Aide Tian smiled.
"The topic."
The room fell quiet.
Outside the window, someone carrying baskets of vegetables on a shoulder pole passed by. A bamboo basket struck the corner of the wall with a dull thud.
Shuhe looked first at Ye Qingyun, then at the paper. His eyes lit up.
"Young Master, wouldn't having the topic make this a sure thing?"
Ye Qingyun raised a hand, and Shuhe swallowed the rest of his words.
Aide Tian held the paper out in the same position.
"Young Master Ye, the capital is not like Jizhou. There are many talented people here, and even more with connections. Lord Zhou is willing to open a path for you."
Ye Qingyun stared at the paper.
The tightly shut gates of the Chancellor's Residence flashed through his mind, followed by the gatekeeper's gaze as he sized up his cloth boots.
If he took the topic, tomorrow would be more certain.
If he did not, he would still have to face the disdain of the entire capital.
He tucked the proceedings into his sleeve, but did not take the second sheet.
"I, Ye Qingyun, have no need to cheat."
Aide Tian's hand stopped in midair.
Shuhe opened his mouth, his face scrunching up.
Aide Tian withdrew the paper. The smile on his face did not diminish, but the warmth in his eyes faded a little.
"Young Master Ye has an unbending spirit. Lord Zhou will appreciate that."
Ye Qingyun pointed at the silver on the table.
"Leave the silver."
Aide Tian was taken aback.
Ye Qingyun picked up the cold tea and took a swig. The bitterness made him frown, but his voice remained steady.
"I'll walk my own path. But I do need a change of clothes. When I take the stage tomorrow, I can't have people staring only at the holes in my soles."
Aide Tian laughed aloud, then cupped his hands and took his leave.
After he left, Shuhe pounced on the silver and hefted it in both hands.
"Young Master, it's real silver!"
"Go buy some clothes. Blue-gray fine cloth, nothing expensive, but make sure the cut fits."
Shuhe couldn't understand.
"We have money now, and you still want cloth clothes?"
Ye Qingyun picked up his old long robe and shook it out. The frayed edges of its cuffs looked fuzzy in the morning light.
"Tomorrow, the first thing they need to see is a man of humble birth. Only then should they hear the poetry. The greater the contrast, the louder the slap to their faces."
Shuhe understood. He grabbed the silver and ran downstairs.
That afternoon, the blue-gray fine-cloth robe arrived.
Ye Qingyun changed into it and stood before the bronze mirror. The reflection was unclear, his figure rippling as if on water. The clothes were not expensive, but the shoulders were sharply cut, and the bamboo tube at his waist held down the folds. He looked a good deal neater overall.
He smoothed his cuffs, sat down at the table again, and took out the poems once more.
Entering the capital. The old betrothal. Soaring into the clouds.
Each poem could bring out his life story.
Each line could lay the Su Clan's retreat out in the open.
He had never met Su Yao.
But the name had lived in his mind for too many years.
When he was young, his father would get drunk, pat him on the shoulder, and say, "Qingyun, one day you'll go to the capital, marry the Su Clan's daughter, and rise above everyone else."
Later, his father died in bed. The roof leaked, and even the money for his coffin had been borrowed.
Ye Qingyun picked up the second poem, his gaze fixed on the words "old betrothal."
Tomorrow was not just about making a name for himself.
Su Wenyuan would be unable to sit still in front of a hall full of guests.
Su Yao would have to learn that she had married the wrong man.
And that Gu Moran would have to understand: some things could not be snatched away with a mere imperial edict.
As for whether Su Yao herself wanted to marry him?
The question had never entered his mind.
In his heart, the marriage was his father's dying wish, something the Su Clan owed him.
Su Yao ought to wait for him to marry her.
At dusk, the system panel popped up in the study at Prince Yi's Residence.
[Ye Qingyun's confidence: highlight threshold reached.] [Fortune value: continuing to rise.] [New node "First Triumph at the Poetry Gathering" about to trigger.]
Gu Moran looked at the three lines.
He picked up a sheet of paper.
It was the record of Aide Tian's visit, delivered by a covert agent half an hour earlier.
Ye Qingyun had refused the topic.
He had refused it beautifully.
Gu Moran put down the paper and tapped the desk twice with his fingers.
"He has backbone and brains, and he even knows what to wear onstage."
"Unfortunately, the proceedings you received are real."
"But among the people actually taking the stage, there's one more you didn't count on."
He put his brush back on its rest and leaned against his chair, his thumb rubbing the rim of his teacup.
Ye Qingyun had prepared three poems: warm up, plunge in the knife, and draw in the net.
The plan was clear, and the pacing was right.
Against another opponent, that whole routine really might have left them reeling.
Unfortunately, he had overlooked one thing.
He thought his opponents tomorrow were the scholars filling the hall and the Su Clan's old chancellor.
They weren't.
His true opponent would not stand before him at all.
Gu Moran set down his teacup, stood, and walked to the window.
Tranquil Ink Courtyard.
Xie Wanqing had already read the poem before her silently seven times.
When she finished, she turned it over and laid it face down on the table.
It wasn't badly written.
It was too good.
So good that, for the first time, she felt that taking the stage tomorrow would mean more than simply completing a task for someone else.
She herself wanted to take the stage too.