Music Through the Tower
By the time the music unfurled through the hall, Fang Yingjie had already come out of the side corridor with a wine jar in his arms.
The eastern seats lay to the right of the main hall, not far from the waterside platform. Had an ordinary guest been seated there, one lift of the eyes would have shown Yan Ji sitting behind her qin table, red sleeves falling from her wrists, lamplight resting against her figure. But Fang Yingjie was taking the narrow passage behind the seats, a wine jar hugged to his chest. He could not slow his steps, and he could not afford to look up again.
Old Zhao's words were still in his ears.
Keep your eyes lowered.
Keep your ears deaf.
Keep your hands and feet quick.
But one could pretend not to hear many things. Not the qin.
The tune was no longer the fine, light drizzle it had been at its opening note. From the high platform, the music spread slowly outward, threading its way past the red lanterns, the scent of wine, the rising incense, and the crowded silhouettes in the hall, like a layer of Jiangnan night rain descending over all of Baoque Tower. The restlessness that had floated a moment earlier above wine cups, laughter, and watching eyes was pressed down little by little beneath those strings.
There had still been murmurs in the main hall at first.
Some had been comparing the value of their gifts with those at neighboring tables. Others had quietly asked whether the poetry scrolls they had submitted at the gift desk had already been placed before Yan Ji. Others still, under cover of pouring wine, had stolen glances toward the pomegranate-red figure upon the stage.
But after a few turns of the melody, even those voices subsided.
It was not that no one wished to speak.
It was that any word spoken aloud would sound coarse.
Master Huang the Sixth from west of the lake, who had been laughing the loudest a moment ago, now slowly lowered his wine cup. He could not hear the deeper refinements in the qin, but he could hear that the whole hall had gone quiet, and he had no wish to be the one man who seemed vulgar. Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou, seated at another table, was sitting straighter than before, fingertips lightly resting on one knee; when the melody reached a certain passage, even the space between his brows stirred, almost too faintly to notice.
Along the second-floor railing, Qiutang still held a pipa in her arms.
She was one of the girls Baoque Tower most prided itself on. On ordinary nights, a single light tune from her could draw pounding praise from countless regular patrons. But now she stood behind the curtain, listening to the qin from the platform, and the familiar smile at her lips slowly faded.
The little maid beside her did not understand. She only felt that the tower had suddenly grown so quiet it had become almost frightening.
"Miss?" she whispered.
Qiutang did not look at her.
"Listen," she said softly.
The maid did not dare speak again.
Fang Yingjie reached the eastern seats and gently set the wine jar down.
One guest at the table had been listening in a trance. Seeing Fang Yingjie's shadow block the table, he frowned and snapped in a lowered voice, "Lower."
Fang Yingjie's hands paused.
Only for that instant.
Then he bent slightly and slid the jar toward the singing girl beside the table.
"The wine is here."
She too had been staring at the platform and only came back to herself at his words. Reaching out in haste, she took the jar and said under her breath, "Set it here."
Fang Yingjie gave no answer. He stepped back twice, turned, and headed for the side corridor.
Behind him, the wine seal was slapped open, and the fragrance rose rich and warm from the mouth of the jar. Yet in the next moment it was wrapped over again by the agarwood incense and the powdery scent that filled the tower. The guests' calls for drink had softened. Even the girls poured more lightly than usual. The sound of wine falling into cups seemed afraid to disturb the music.
Fang Yingjie passed along the edge of the main hall.
Red lanterns swept one by one across the side of his face, only to be broken again by the shifting silhouettes between the tables. Every gaze in the hall was fixed upon the waterside platform. No one noticed a newly arrived outer-yard servant passing behind them. Now and then someone shifted half a step aside, but not because they had seen him—only because they feared blocking their own angle for listening, or looking.
He suddenly thought that perhaps this was for the best.
No one noticed him.
And so no one knew who he was.
No one knew whom he had buried at dawn, and no one knew that the wooden token of the outer yard in his sleeve had been bought with a thin coffin.
Yet the qin still followed him from behind.
The piece sounded gentle enough, but there was nothing weightless in it. At first it had been like rain. Gradually it became more like water. The surface was calm, but beneath it ran a hidden current. What others heard was elegance, Jiangnan, a beauty thanking her guests with a song. But when Fang Yingjie listened, he could not shake the feeling that there was a thread of cold buried somewhere within it.
Not killing intent.
Not hatred either.
It was more like some old thing lying sunken in deep water—something that had gone down many years ago, and was only revealed now and then when a stray shaft of moonlight touched it, reminding one that it was still there.
He did not know why such a thought had come to him.
Nor should he have been thinking such things.
He was only Mu Qi.
And what Mu Qi had to do tonight was not listen to qin music.
It was carry wine.
The moment he turned back into the side corridor, he saw Old Zhao standing there, giving brisk instructions in a lowered voice to several servants.
"Clear the empty cups from the two eastern tables. Don't pass in front of the stage."
"The outer corridor upstairs needs hot towels. Take the back passage."
"Hold the name cards at the gift desk for now. The tune isn't over yet. No one is to crowd forward."
When he finished, Old Zhao's gaze swept once across the corridor and landed on Fang Yingjie.
"Mu Qi."
Fang Yingjie stopped.
"Yes."
Old Zhao pointed at two warmed wine ewers on the wooden rack nearby.
"Take those to the western seats. Step lightly. Don't let them clink."
Fang Yingjie answered and went forward to lift them.
The ewers were warm against his palms. The instant they touched his skin, the rope-burned cuts in his hands gave a faint sting. His fingers tightened slightly, yet the vessels remained perfectly steady. Two wine ewers were not heavy, but to carry them across a hall sunk in such silence demanded more care than moving a weight twice as great.
He followed the side of the hall toward the western seats.
The nearer he came to the platform, the clearer the qin became.
He still did not look up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw only a spill of red skirts falling behind the qin table. Lamplight rested on that red, then seemed gently pushed aside again by the flowing music. The woman herself was doing nothing more than sitting there, yet all of Baoque Tower seemed to revolve around her.
Fang Yingjie lowered his eyes.
Suddenly he understood: everyone in the tower tonight was waiting for her.
The wealthy merchants waited for a glance.
The scholars waited for a word.
The men of the martial world perhaps waited for something deeper, something hidden behind her.
And he was waiting only to see whether, once his duties were done, he might find a corner to sit in and eat a mouthful of hot rice.
At the western seats, a jade cup had overturned on the table, and wine had spread across nearly half its surface. A singing girl was wiping it with a cloth. Seeing Fang Yingjie arrive with the ewers, she quickly motioned for him to set them down.
One young gentleman at the table frowned, dissatisfied that he had moved too slowly.
"New here?" he asked.
Fang Yingjie kept his eyes lowered.
"Yes."
The young man looked ready to say more, but at that very moment the qin took an unexpected turn.
The turn was neither sudden nor sharp. It was only that within the soft sounds that had flowed like rain and water until now, there suddenly opened a vast emptiness, very far away. It was like a lone lamp appearing through the mist to a boat traveling at midnight; like the last old flame at the end of a waterway being snuffed out by someone across the bank.
The words stopped on the young man's lips.
He forgot Fang Yingjie altogether and turned toward the high platform.
Fang Yingjie withdrew.
When he stepped back, no one noticed.
The music went on.
The heat in the main hall had been subdued, but Baoque Tower itself had not truly paused. In front, the guests held their breath to listen. In back, people still boiled water, rinsed cups, hauled wine, and passed messages. The servants in the side corridors moved even more hurriedly now, only with their footsteps carefully softened. From the direction of the kitchens came, from time to time, the low curses of old working women, quickly swallowed again by smoke and walls.
This was Baoque Tower.
In front, a single performance of elegance.
Behind, a whole courtyard of labor.
One person on the stage plucked a qin, and the hearts of a tower full of people were led where she wished; but below the platform, others still had to refill the wine, change the cups, remove the dishes, carry the charcoal. However beautiful the music, it could not fill an empty cup on its own. It could not replenish lamp oil by itself. And it certainly could not win an outer-yard servant even a moment's rest.
When Fang Yingjie reached the entrance to the wine cellar, it suddenly seemed to him that the tower was divided into two separate worlds.
One beneath the lamps.
One behind them.
Now he stood behind them.
The qin came to him through corridor after corridor, fainter now, no more than a cold lingering thread. Yet the farther away it grew, the clearer that chill seemed. It was nothing like the moon-and-willows romance the guests in the front hall heard in it, nor the refinement the scholars fancied they heard. Here in the rear court, amid firewood smoke, wine jars, cold water, and dirty bowls, it sounded more like a very soft sigh.
Fang Yingjie suddenly thought of the new grave behind the ruined Water God Temple.
By now the sky there should be fully dark.
The reeds would be swaying in the night wind. The damp earth would be cooling inch by inch. The blank stone before the grave would stand alone, with no one knowing who lay beneath it. There was no qin there, no red lanterns, no hall full of guests, and no one pausing with a wine cup in hand to listen in silence for the dead buried below that mound.
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them again at once.
This was not the time for such thoughts.
Old Zhao's voice came from beneath the corridor eaves.
"Mu Qi. What are you standing there for?"
Fang Yingjie turned.
"Steward Zhao."
Old Zhao looked him over once. Seeing that his expression was still steady enough, he asked no questions, only handed him an empty tray.
"Take the cups and dishes from the western side to be washed. Lightly now. Don't let them strike together."
Fang Yingjie took the tray.
"Yes."
He turned back once more toward the main hall.
Just as he reached the end of the side corridor, the qin suddenly rose by a single thread.
That line of sound seemed to float up from the floor of deep water. It was not fierce, yet every heart in the tower lifted with it at the same instant. In the very next breath, her fingers pressed it gently down again, as though that glimmer of light upon the waves had never truly risen to the surface at all.
Fang Yingjie's steps slowed as well, for half a beat.
But in the end, he still did not look up.
He carried the tray in lowered silence along the edge of the lamplight.
Behind him, someone sighed very softly.
"What a qin."
Another voice answered in a hush, "It isn't the qin. It's the woman."
This time, no one laughed at the remark for being crude.
As the piece neared its end, the tower grew so quiet one could almost hear the lamp oil faintly crackle.
The first mood of Jiangnan night rain seemed to return. Only when it had arrived, it had been rain falling from a boat's eaves; when it left, it was more like the ripples remaining on the water after the rain had stopped, widening outward ring by ring. When the last note fell, Baoque Tower remained silent for a full several breaths.
Only after those few breaths did the applause break out like thunder.
"Wonderful!"
"Miss Yan Ji!"
"To hear such a piece tonight—this journey was worth it!"
"Mama Qi, that cannot count as a mere farewell tune. Baoque Tower owes us a night of sweet dreams after this!"
Laughter rose again through the hall.
But this time it was different.
Before, it had been shallow, feverish, competitive.
Now the warmth remained, yet it was as though the music had washed over it once. Even the flatteries had grown more careful. Those who had been eager to show off their gifts no longer dared loudly demand word of the choosing. It was as though they feared that the moment they opened their mouths, they would stain the lingering aftersound the tune had left behind.
Mama Qi stood at the side of the hall, her smile poised at exactly the right measure.
With a light lift of her round fan, the noise in the hall subsided once more.
On the high platform, Yan Ji's fingertips left the strings, and her flowing sleeves slowly fell back to her wrists. She did not speak at once. She only lowered her eyes to the qin strings, as though the last echoes of the piece still rested beneath her hands.
Iron Mask remained half a step behind her.
Still. Silent.
At the edge of the side corridor, however, Old Zhao was already hissing under his breath, "Don't just stand there."
He looked toward the men from the outer yard.
"The tune is done. Now the real work begins."
Fang Yingjie stood at the edge of the main hall with the empty tray in his hands.
He saw the guests throughout the tower rising with cups lifted high. He saw Mama Qi smiling as she held the room in hand. He saw the layered movement of curtains on the second floor. And he saw, behind the qin table, that red-robed figure sitting quietly at the center of all the lantern light in the tower.
Just one glance.
Then he lowered his eyes again.
The cups on the tray gave the faintest sway, nearly striking one another. Fang Yingjie steadied his hands at once.
The qin had fallen silent.
But Baoque Tower had only now awakened into its deepest hour.
And for him, the night's work had only just begun.
Eyes Lowered Beneath the Lamps
The cries of approval came in waves, each louder than the last.
All the life and heat in the hall that the qin had held in check seemed at last to find an outlet, pouring suddenly from wine cups, applause, and laughter. Some guests rose with clasped hands in salute. Some lifted their cups toward the high platform from afar. Others, seizing the moment, hastily sent attendants to add to their gifts, as if the more deeply that single piece had moved them, the more ashamed they felt of what they had prepared before.
"Go. Fetch the brocade box from the carriage as well."
"Where is my lyric scroll? Has it been delivered to Mama Qi yet?"
"That piece just now—did Miss Yan Ji give it a title herself?"
"If I can enter Yan Pavilion tonight, then even if you told me to spend my entire fortune tomorrow, I would call it worthwhile."
The voices had risen again, but all of them circled the high platform.
No one laughed coarsely now, the way they had before. Even those speaking of "entering Yan Pavilion" lowered their voices, as if afraid that too much vulgarity in their tone might carry to the woman in red upon the stage.
Mama Qi stood in the middle of the hall, smiling with a spring warmth that revealed nothing.
She neither hurried to answer nor rushed Yan Ji into choosing a guest. She merely had the louder corners of the room gently quieted, then flicked a glance toward the gift desk, instructing the clerks there to set aside the newly added gift slips for the moment.
Yan Ji still sat behind her qin table.
Her fingers had already left the strings, yet there was not much triumph on her face. The thunder of applause and praise that fell upon her was like rain on a deep pool, stirring only the faintest ripple before vanishing. She lowered her eyes slightly and let a maid step forward to straighten the wide sleeve that had slipped down her arm.
Tie Mian stood behind her.
Still motionless.
As though the entire hall had not just been led by the heart through a single song, and none of it had anything to do with him.
By the side corridor, Old Zhao had already redistributed several of the outer-yard servants.
"Mu Qi. Clear the empty cups from the east seats first."
Fang Yingjie answered and took up his tray, following the side passage toward the eastern section.
The song had ended, but the room had only grown busier.
While they had been listening, many of the dishes and cups had gone untouched. Now that everyone had come back to themselves, they discovered that the wine in their cups had gone cool, the food on their tables had lost its heat, and the incense in the burners was nearly spent. The drinking girls found their laughter again. The male attendants moved even faster than before. Maids hurried up and down the stairs with hot towels and fresh tea. At the gift desk, the muted rattle of abacus beads and the turning of ledger pages began once more.
When Fang Yingjie came to clear the cups, one guest dropped his empty goblet onto the tray without even looking at him.
The cup struck hard against the lacquered surface with a light, sharp sound.
Fang Yingjie steadied the tray at once.
The drinking girl beside the guest changed color slightly and said in a low voice, "Careful."
She was not speaking to the guest.
She was speaking to Fang Yingjie.
Fang Yingjie lowered his eyes. "Yes."
Only after hearing that quiet reply did the guest seem to notice there was someone beside him at all. He cast Fang Yingjie a sidelong glance, saw only a newly arrived servant still wearing old clothes, and gave a careless chuckle.
"New here?"
"Yes."
"No wonder your hands are clumsy," the man said lazily. "On a night like this, Baoque Tower still dares to put newcomers out front."
Another man nearby laughed. "The whole house is short-handed tonight. Besides, he's only an outer-yard servant. So long as he can keep a tray steady, that's enough."
Fang Yingjie said nothing.
He gathered the empty cups, straightened a porcelain dish at the edge of the table where wine had dripped across it, and only then stepped back.
The guest seemed about to find a few more faults with him, but his gaze shifted and was drawn back to Yan Ji on the platform. He waved a dismissive hand.
"Off with you."
Fang Yingjie withdrew with the tray.
He walked very steadily.
Though the tray held many cups, they did not knock together again.
Only the knuckles around its edge were white from how hard he held it.
None of those people tonight knew who Fang Yingjie was.
And they did not care.
All they knew was that before them stood a newly arrived outer-yard servant, someone who could be scolded if his hands were slow, cursed if his shadow blocked the view, blamed if a cup knocked too loudly.
He was not the Young Master of Fang Stronghold.
He was not a disciple of the Mount Hua Sect.
He was not Fang Tieshan's son.
Here, he was only Mu Qi.
And Mu Qi was meant to keep his eyes lowered, obey orders, move quickly, and keep his mouth shut.
When he returned to the mouth of the side corridor, Old Zhao was standing there watching him.
Fang Yingjie handed the tray to a boy washing cups nearby, then turned and waited for instructions.
Old Zhao did not speak at once. He looked Fang Yingjie up and down.
"Someone cursed you just now?"
"No."
Something moved at the corner of Old Zhao's mouth, perhaps a smile, perhaps not.
"In this place, if a guest says a few words to you, that doesn't count as cursing. Even if he lays hands on you, so long as he doesn't break your bones, it may not count for much."
Fang Yingjie said nothing.
"Remember that?"
"I remember."
"Good." Old Zhao tossed him a folded cleaning rag. "Someone spilled wine in the west seats. Go wipe it up. Don't block the view of the stage."
Fang Yingjie caught the rag and headed back into the main hall.
A cup had indeed been overturned in the western section.
Wine had run over the edge of the table and dripped onto the crimson carpet below, darkening one patch of it. The guest had paid it no mind and still sat with his face tilted toward the platform, talking in a low voice with the man beside him about the piece they had just heard. A drinking girl had been about to crouch and wipe it herself, but when Fang Yingjie arrived she gave a small sigh of relief and yielded the place to him.
Fang Yingjie crouched down.
Light spilled over him from above, and at once all the noise and brightness in the hall seemed to rise very high and very far away. The voices at the tables passed over his head. The smell of wine and powder pressed down on him from above. Half kneeling beside the table, he lowered his head and slowly wiped the wine from the floor.
Once wet, the carpet darkened further, like a stain of deep red blood.
The wound across the back of his hand scraped against the coarse cloth and went numb with pain.
Not far away, someone laughed loudly and said, "If that piece were taken south to Jiangnan, even the famous performers on the Qinhuai River would probably shut their doors for three days."
Another answered, "What is the Qinhuai River? What makes Miss Yan Ji truly rare is that she is here in Luzin Town. If she really went to Jinling, would the likes of us ever get to see her?"
"True enough. If she were in a great city, would we even have a chance to vie for an evening in Yan Pavilion?"
The men laughed again.
Fang Yingjie wiped away the last trace of wine and rose.
One guest casually pushed an empty plate toward him without taking his eyes off the platform.
"Take this too."
Fang Yingjie lowered his head and took it. "Yes."
As he turned, his sleeve caught on the corner of the table.
The cloth was old to begin with. One pull like that nearly tore it open. Fang Yingjie paused for the briefest instant and carefully freed the sleeve. A guest at the table heard the sound and frowned at him.
"Why are you dawdling?"
Fang Yingjie bowed his head. "I'm going."
He withdrew with the empty plate.
He had only just reached the side corridor again when another serving boy slammed toward him head-on, arms full of fresh teacups and moving too fast to stop himself. Fang Yingjie shifted aside, and the boy just barely brushed past him.
"The private room in the west wing keeps screaming for tea," the boy muttered under his breath. "As if half a moment later and they'll die on the spot."
Only then did he realize it was Fang Yingjie. He added casually, "Mu Qi, you didn't make any mistakes out front just now, did you?"
"No."
"Good." The boy lowered his voice. "If anything goes wrong before Miss Yan Ji chooses her guest tonight, Old Zhao will skin a man alive."
Fang Yingjie asked, "When does she choose?"
The boy reacted as though he had heard something hopelessly naive. Still walking, he said, "After a girl finishes her piece for the room, naturally she looks at the gifts. Once she's seen the gifts, then there'll be talk. Don't bother about it. It has nothing to do with the likes of us."
By the time the words were done, he had already run off with the teacups.
The likes of us.
He had said it carelessly.
But it was true enough.
Fang Yingjie stood in the shadow of the side corridor and heard another ripple of movement stir in the center of the hall. The gift desk had brought out several newly added offerings. After hearing the qin, some men had increased their stakes on the spot. Two serving boys passed by carrying a long box draped in brocade, tassels hanging from its four corners. One glance was enough to tell it was worth a great deal.
As the box passed before Fang Yingjie, the copper fittings at its corners flashed under the lamplight.
Suddenly he thought of the thin coffin from earlier that day.
That coffin of rough wood had neither lacquer nor copper corners.
Even the nails had been old ones, rummaged out from the bottom of a shopkeeper's drawer.
That had been the last scrap of dignity one tael of silver could buy.
And the box before him—perhaps only some guest's sudden whim, an extra gift tossed in on the spur of the moment—was already finer than that coffin by far.
Fang Yingjie did not look again.
He turned and went to fetch more empty plates.
At the center of the hall, Mama Qi had already taken a stack of thin slips from the gift desk. She lowered her head and read through them, then turned to murmur a few words to the maid beside her. The maid carried the gift list toward the side of the platform, but did not go directly up. She stopped below and waited for Yan Ji's signal.
Gradually, the hall quieted again.
Everyone knew that once the music ended, the gifts must come next.
Sixth Master Huang, the man who had offered coral earlier, adjusted his robe. The smile was still on his face, but his hand touched the wine cup at the edge of his table without thinking.
Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou was looking toward the platform. His face was calmer than most, yet the fingers resting on his knee tapped once, lightly.
Scholar Gu, who had presented the lyric, still had a little color in his cheeks. He murmured two lines from his own verse under his breath, as if afraid that if someone asked him about them later, he would not be able to continue.
The guest with the jade flute held it across his palms, seeming still to weigh whether he ought to request another piece.
Every man thought he had some chance.
Every man feared someone else had a better one.
The hunger to contend, which the qin had pressed down only moments ago, began to rise again from wine fumes and smiling talk. But this time it was no longer laid bare. It hid in glances, in posture, in fingers resting on cup rims, in every line of elegant-sounding conversation.
Old Zhao stood at the edge of the side corridor and watched with cold eyes.
He had no interest in the thoughts of these guests. He only knew that from this moment on, the outer yard could not afford a single mistake. Gifts had to be delivered. Name cards had to be passed in. Hot tea had to be kept flowing. Wine cups could not sit empty. And both in front of the stage and behind it, everything had to be quieter and more precise than before.
He turned his head. "Mu Qi."
Fang Yingjie stepped forward at once. "Here."
Old Zhao pointed toward several empty brocade boxes stacked beside the gift desk. "Take those back to the storeroom first. Remember this: even empty boxes have owners. Don't dent them, and don't mix them up."
"Yes."
He went to the gift desk, crouched down, and stacked the empty brocade boxes one by one.
They looked light, but were awkward to carry together. The brocade on top was slippery, and the copper corners beneath were hard. One careless movement and they would knock together with a sound. He tested the balance, placed the largest box at the bottom, set the two smaller ones on top, and braced the stack against his arm.
The steward at the gift desk glanced at him and said, "That one belongs to Sixth Master Huang. That one to Second Master Lu. Don't mix them up. Once you take them back to the storeroom, arrange them by the slips."
Fang Yingjie nodded. "Understood."
The steward's brows twitched. "You can read?"
Fang Yingjie's hands paused for a fraction of a moment.
Only a fraction.
Then he lowered his head and said, "A few characters."
The steward did not think much of it. "Good enough. There are too many people tonight. Don't put the wrong thing in the wrong place and start trouble."
Fang Yingjie answered once and lifted the boxes.
Old Zhao, standing at the mouth of the corridor, had heard that exchange as well. His gaze lingered for a moment on Fang Yingjie's back, but he said nothing.
Fang Yingjie carried the boxes into the rear passage.
The lights and noise of the hall gradually fell behind him. Even the lingering aftertaste of the qin receded. Halfway there, he heard Mama Qi's voice rise from the front again—smiling, bright, pitched just right to carry through the hall.
"Gentlemen, Miss Yan Ji has seen the sincerity in all your gifts."
Fang Yingjie did not slow his steps.
The rear passage was dimmer, lit only by a few small lamps along the wall. The copper corners of the boxes pressed into the crook of his arm. He walked steadily, but he knew very well that with those few words, every heart in the hall would be hanging by a thread again.
And sure enough, the clamor in the hall dropped at once.
Like a bow drawn taut.
Everyone was waiting for Yan Ji to look over the gifts.
Everyone was waiting to see whom Yan Pavilion would open for tonight.
Fang Yingjie carried the boxes into the storeroom and set them down in their proper places one by one, according to the slips.
There were no red lanterns in the storeroom.
Only a single dim oil lamp hung from a beam, casting half-light over gift chests, wine jars, brocade boxes, and incense caskets. At the front of the house, fortunes were being thrown away for beauty; here, they were nothing more than objects to be recorded, shelved, and kept under watch.
He set down the last box and straightened.
At that moment, a low murmur of amazement rose again from the front hall.
Perhaps Yan Ji had spoken.
Or perhaps someone had presented something new.
Fang Yingjie did not let himself think about it.
He turned and walked out.
Whether Yan Pavilion opened tonight or not, and for whom, had nothing to do with him.
At least, for the moment, that was what he believed.
No Guest Chosen
By the time Fang Yingjie came out of the storeroom, the noise in the front hall had fallen completely away.
It was not the same hush that had settled over the room when Yan Ji had been playing.
That earlier hush had been pressed down by music, as if everyone's mind had been carried off against his will by the sound of her strings. This silence was different. It felt like a bow being drawn back inch by inch, the string already taut, the arrow still refusing to fly.
Everyone was waiting.
Waiting for Yan Ji to look over the gifts.
Waiting for Yan Ji to speak.
Waiting to see for whom, if anyone, the door of the Yan Pavilion would open tonight.
Fang Yingjie made his way toward the main hall by the rear passage. Before he even reached the mouth of the side corridor, he heard Mama Qi's smiling voice carry from the front.
"Sixth Master Huang of Huxi, one branch of red coral from the South Sea. The color is true and rich, and better yet, the shape spreads with rare grace. Under the lamplight, it looks almost like a spring tree growing beneath the sea."
Laughter rose in answer through the hall.
Sixth Master Huang sat at his table, protesting modestly, "Too much, too much," yet the satisfaction on his face would not hide. He lifted his wine cup and raised it toward the platform from afar.
"Nothing but a vulgar trifle, only to win a smile from Miss Yan Ji."
The words were humble enough, but the moment he said to win a smile from Miss Yan Ji, the expressions at several nearby tables turned faintly strange.
Mama Qi only smiled and did not touch the implication beneath his words. She turned to the next gift slip.
"Second Master Lu of Linjiang, twelve Eastern pearls. Round, lustrous, and perfectly matched."
Second Master Lu was not especially old, but he was dressed in great luxury. Hearing his gift announced, he did not hurry to speak. He only turned the jade ring on his thumb once, slowly, as though unwilling to let anyone miss how composed he was.
Mama Qi read on.
"Second Master Chen of Hukou, one pair of foreign glass cups. Clear as crystal, yet under the lamplight they show a color of their own."
Second Master Chen smiled and inclined his head.
"Only a small token, to add a little brilliance beneath the lamps for Miss Yan Ji."
He said it lightly enough, yet the strange glow cast by those foreign cups under the lanterns still drew more than a few lingering glances from the guests.
Mama Qi turned another page.
"Scholar Gu of Linchuan, one lyric set to Slow Tune: Gathering Lotus."
Scholar Gu's cheeks flushed at once. He hurried to his feet and bowed toward the platform.
"My poor work scarcely deserves to be called a gift. I only heard that Miss Yan Ji is learned in lyric measure, and dared to make a fool of myself."
Someone in the hall laughed softly.
It was quieter than the earlier teasing, but it still made Scholar Gu's ears burn a shade redder.
Jewels and treasures were piled high at the gift registry tonight. If a new lyric was not good enough, it was more embarrassing than coming empty-handed. Scholar Gu clearly knew that himself. After bowing, he sat back down in visible discomfort.
Mama Qi, however, behaved as if she had heard nothing at all.
"Young Master Xie of Yuzhang, one scroll of quatrains in his own hand."
Young Master Xie's face colored as well. He rose and bowed toward the platform.
"My poor work scarcely deserves to be called a gift. I only heard that Miss Yan Ji appreciates poetry, and dared to offer this clumsy attempt."
Another quiet laugh rippled through the hall.
There was no real malice in it, perhaps, but no real kindness either.
Scholar Gu had offered lyrics; Young Master Xie, calligraphy and verse. One staked his claim on refinement of meter, the other on brush and ink. It was the dignity of men of letters. Yet before a hall full of pearls and jade, that dignity looked especially thin.
Mama Qi continued.
"Master He of Hukou, one casket of agarwood incense."
Master He smiled with settled assurance and lifted a hand.
"Fine incense ought to be matched with fine music. Only after hearing Miss Yan Ji's piece just now did I realize this gift of mine was still too light."
That was cleverer than Sixth Master Huang's words.
He did not compete in wealth or vanity. He spoke only of matching the music.
Several people in the hall glanced at him anew, as if weighing his intentions all over again.
Fang Yingjie stood in the shadow of the side corridor, an empty tray still in his hands.
Old Zhao had not told him to move, so he did not move.
From where he stood, he could see most of the main hall, but not Yan Ji's full figure upon the raised platform. Only now and then, through gaps between moving bodies, he caught a glimpse of a red sleeve, the edge of the zither table, and the lamplight stirring softly behind the watery curtains.
One gift after another was announced aloud.
With each new offering, one table's faces brightened slightly, while another's darkened.
All the elegance this tower prided itself on, at this moment, was still nothing more than a contest.
Only some competed with silver, some with paintings and calligraphy, some with poetry and lyrics, and some with a cleverness they fancied showed they understood Yan Ji's heart better than anyone else.
At last Mama Qi's voice paused ever so slightly.
The entire hall went still with her.
Many people knew there was still one gift left unspoken.
That ancient zither.
The instrument Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou had sent.
Yan Ji had not used it for the piece she played earlier, yet from the moment it was delivered to the gift registry, it had drawn more notice than any jewel in the room. Not because it was necessarily the most costly, but because it had been offered with such precision.
Yan Ji excelled at the qin.
So Young Master Shen had presented a qin.
If Yan Ji truly prized refinement, then that instrument was more likely to catch her eye than a branch of coral or twelve Eastern pearls.
Sure enough, when Mama Qi reached the final gift slip, the smile in her voice deepened a little.
"Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou, one ancient zither."
Many eyes in the hall turned toward Young Master Shen at once.
He rose calmly enough.
"Only an old instrument. I would not dare call it a treasure. It was only after hearing Miss Yan Ji's piece just now that I realized how shallow my own earlier thoughts had been."
The line was delivered without arrogance and without self-abasement.
He did not press Yan Ji to try the instrument on the spot, nor did he boast of the gift. Instead, he admitted that after hearing her play, he had realized the limits of his own understanding.
Sixth Master Huang, cup in hand, let the smile at the corner of his mouth fade a little.
Second Master Lu finally lifted his eyes and gave Young Master Shen a proper look.
Scholar Gu and Young Master Xie quieted as well. One lowered his gaze to his sleeve; the other slowly stilled the folding fan in his hand. Both seemed to know that whatever little claim they had made with ink and verse had just been pushed down another step by that single zither.
From the second-floor railing, someone murmured,
"That was neatly said."
"Neatly or not depends on whether Miss Yan Ji is willing to hear it."
"If tonight is truly decided by refinement, that Young Master Shen may have a chance."
"Not necessarily. Has Miss Yan Ji ever let anyone guess her choice so easily?"
The murmurs died almost as quickly as they rose.
Because on the platform, Yan Ji finally lifted her eyes.
The whole tower quieted with her.
Mama Qi stepped half a pace aside and yielded the floor.
It was a measured retreat.
The announcing of gifts, the smoothing of faces, the keeping down of the room's swelling noise—that was Mama Qi's work. But the one who would truly decide for whom the Yan Pavilion opened tonight had never been her.
It was Yan Ji.
She sat behind the zither table, her gaze passing from one table to the next.
She did not move quickly.
There was not much smile in her eyes, either.
Yet wherever that gaze passed, men straightened a little in their seats. Sixth Master Huang steadied the hand that held his cup. Second Master Lu stopped turning the jade ring at his thumb. Young Master Xie's fingers curled tightly inside his sleeve. Master He kept the same amiable smile on his face, but no longer spoke to the man beside him.
Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou did not avoid her gaze. He only inclined his head slightly.
At that instant, almost everyone in the tower thought Yan Ji would let her eyes linger on him for the space of one extra breath.
But she did not.
Her gaze merely passed over him.
Lightly.
Faintly.
As though she had looked at a zither, looked at a gift, and looked at a man clever enough to know how to present one.
Then she moved on.
The barest shadow of disappointment flashed through Young Master Shen's eyes, but he suppressed it at once.
The hall grew quieter still.
Yan Ji lowered her eyes and looked at the strings before her.
It was as though the aftertaste of the last piece still lingered there.
She did not speak at once.
Yet the longer she remained silent, the higher everyone's anticipation climbed.
The smile in Mama Qi's eyes did not change, but something inside her stirred.
She had been at Yan Ji's side for years. She knew that when Yan Ji kept silent, it often did not mean she had not yet decided. It meant she had already decided, and simply was not in a hurry to let the words fall.
Sure enough, after a moment, Yan Ji finally spoke.
"Gentlemen, I have taken your kindness to heart."
Her voice was not loud.
But it carried clearly enough for the whole tower to hear.
Like the music she had just played, it was soft without being light, unhurried without losing shape.
Everyone waited for the next sentence in complete stillness.
"Whether gold and jade, poetry and prose, zither or incense," she said, "all that has been offered tonight carries true elegance."
Sixth Master Huang's expression eased a little.
A faint glimmer returned to Scholar Gu's and Young Master Xie's eyes.
Somewhere in the hall, someone tightened his grip on his wine cup, as though waiting only for her next words to call a name.
Yan Ji, however, paused lightly just then.
With that pause, the hearts of those listening seemed to stop for half a beat as well.
She raised her eyes and let them pass over the lantern glow and the gathered hall.
"But after that last piece," she said, "the music in my heart has already run its course."
The hall went quiet.
Some had not understood yet.
Others had understood, but refused to believe it at once.
Yan Ji continued, "If I were to force myself to keep one guest tonight, I would only betray the spirit in which you gave these gifts."
Her tone remained level.
Neither apologetic nor deliberately cold.
As though this were simply a thing she had every right to decide.
"So tonight, the Yan Pavilion will receive no guest."
The words fell.
Something invisible seemed to press down upon the main hall. The silence that followed was so complete that even the faint sound of liquid trembling against wine cups disappeared.
Only after a moment did someone let out a low, startled "Ah."
It was very soft, yet in such stillness it sounded startlingly clear.
The smile on Sixth Master Huang's face finally froze.
Scholar Gu sat there in a daze. Young Master Xie seemed not to know whether he ought to sit or remain standing. Second Master Lu drew his brows together slightly, then smoothed them again and raised his cup to hide his expression. Master He was still smiling, but that smile had faded a good deal.
Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou lowered his eyes and, of them all, was the first to sit back down.
At the second-floor railing, even Qiutang looked surprised.
The little maid beside her widened her eyes and whispered, "Miss isn't choosing anyone tonight?"
Qiutang glanced toward the platform, then at the stiff smiles frozen across the room, and murmured softly, "Hush."
The little maid closed her mouth at once.
Baoque Tower held its choosing once a month.
It was not unheard of for Yan Ji to choose no one.
But it was rare.
Especially tonight, when so many guests had come and the heap of gifts was richer than on previous occasions. Even a man like Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou had offered a zither. Everyone had assumed that no matter what, someone would be invited into the Yan Pavilion before the night was over.
Yet Yan Ji had chosen no one.
The disappointment that spread through the tower felt like hot wine doused with cold water, sending up a heavy steam of frustration too muddled to name.
Some faces turned ugly.
Some forced smiles.
Some lowered their heads and drank.
Some showed open displeasure in their eyes, yet still did not dare make a scene.
Because the rules had already been spoken aloud in front of them all.
The gentlemen who came to Baoque Tower came to seek a lady's favor, not to decide her rules for her.
Only if Yan Ji nodded would there be a Yan Pavilion tonight.
If she would not, then even a mountain of gold piled at the door would be useless.
A short while ago these same men had been slapping the tables and praising that very principle, saying that without something hard to win, pleasure turned vulgar. Now that it had truly become hard to win, no one could be the first to turn sour.
Mama Qi stood stunned for no more than the briefest instant. Then she stepped forward with a smile.
That instant was so brief that no one but she herself could have noticed it.
She opened her round fan. Her voice remained steady—gentler, if anything, than before.
"Gentlemen, do not take offense. Miss Yan Ji has poured the whole of her heart into one piece today. Since she says the music in her heart is spent, it only means she does not wish to slight you with empty courtesy."
It was exquisitely said.
Not a refusal of face.
Not disdain.
She did not want to offer false sentiment.
When refusal was phrased as respect, it gave every man in the room a step to retreat on.
Mama Qi went on, "All the gifts offered tonight have been entered into the tower's records. Those who wish to leave them may rest assured they will be carefully kept and, by the old custom, presented to Miss Yan Ji again at next month's choosing. Those who wish to take them back shall have them returned untouched. Baoque Tower would not dare show the slightest negligence."
Her smile deepened. Her gaze swept lightly across the guests whose expressions had darkened most.
"You gentlemen have come from afar. Baoque Tower would never let you leave empty of amusement. All wine served tonight will have one extra round added at the tower's expense. Misses Qiutang, Yuniang, and Qiyun will also come down to drink with you. And if you still wish to hear music, the tower has prepared a fresh set of songs."
Only then did the rigid air in the hall loosen a little.
Someone seized the opening and laughed. "Mama Qi knows how to handle a room."
Another chimed in, "One piece from Miss Yan Ji tonight is enough for me to boast about for half a year. As for the Yan Pavilion—well, I'll compete again next month."
"That sounds easy enough. Think you can beat the others next month?"
"If I couldn't tonight, who says I can't bring something better next time?"
A few tables forced laughter back into the air.
It was not as natural as before, but at least the room held together again.
Sixth Master Huang finally let out a booming laugh as well, though because it was louder than before, it only made the strain in it clearer.
"If Miss Yan Ji says the music in her heart is spent, then I'll hear it again next month. Mama Qi, see that my coral is stored properly. Next month I mean for the lady to have another look at it."
Mama Qi answered at once with a smile, "Rest easy, Sixth Master Huang. If Baoque Tower damages your treasure, I'll repay it myself."
He waved a hand.
"That won't be necessary. I only hope I'm not left waiting in vain again next month."
There was a trace of resentment in the words.
Mama Qi acted as if she had heard nothing and only smiled.
"In matters like these, the worst thing is ease. If one got what one wanted the moment one waited for it, I suspect even Sixth Master Huang might not find it worth treasuring."
The people around him laughed again.
And just like that, some of the grievance in the room was washed away by laughter.
When Young Master Xie sat back down, his face was still red.
His scroll of verse had not been returned, nor had it been singled out for praise. It had simply been tucked into the pile of gifts, left for consideration next month like everything else. A friend beside him patted his shoulder and offered a few soft words of comfort, and all he could do was answer with a bitter smile.
Young Master Shen of Jiangzhou, by contrast, remained quiet throughout.
He looked toward the platform, then suddenly rose once more and bowed again in Yan Ji's direction.
"If the lady chooses no one tonight, that is the lady's will. Having heard that piece just now, I have not come in vain. If Miss Yan Ji does not disdain it, that old zither may remain in the tower for now. Next month, or not at all—whether it is played or left untouched, I leave it to the lady."
Quite a few people turned to look at him.
Some cursed him inwardly for knowing too well how to strike a pose.
Others had to admit that this was more graceful than continuing to fight for face.
Yan Ji looked at him.
This time her gaze truly lingered a fraction longer than before.
"You are thoughtful, Young Master Shen."
Only five words.
Neither warm nor cold.
Yet they were enough to make many eyes in the room change again.
Young Master Shen showed no excessive joy. He only cupped his hands once more.
"You honor me too highly, Miss."
Then he sat down again.
Sixth Master Huang's face looked worse than ever.
But in her heart, Mama Qi smiled.
No guest had been chosen tonight, yet the desire of those in the tower had not scattered.
On the contrary, that single sentence—the Yan Pavilion will receive no guest—had only dangled next month's hope even higher before them.
Yan Ji rose slowly from behind the zither table.
The hall quieted again at once.
She said nothing more. She only gave the assembled guests a slight bow.
"Please, enjoy the wine."
With that, supported by her maid, she turned and disappeared behind the watery curtains at the rear of the platform.
Tie Mian followed half a step behind her, just as before.
The red of her skirts turned once, and the lamplight swayed with it. The curtain fell softly, hiding that pomegranate-red figure from sight. The whole hall watched the spot as if unwilling to let their eyes withdraw.
Only when her figure had vanished completely behind the curtain did the main hall begin to stir back to life.
But the liveliness this time was far more complicated than before.
Some were disappointed.
Some unwilling to accept it.
Some were already calculating what they should bring next month.
Some affected ease and called loudly for more wine.
And some, precisely because no one had been chosen tonight, found Yan Ji all the rarer and all the more worth contending for.
At the second-floor railing, the girls began to come downstairs one after another to drink with the guests. Qiutang came down the side stairs with a pipa in her arms, the familiar smile already restored to her face. Yuniang, Qiyun, and the others each made their way toward the tables of regular patrons. Baoque Tower could not let its guests leave in disappointment. If Yan Ji would not keep a guest, then someone else had to warm the room again.
So the wine talk rose once more.
And so did the laughter.
Yet everyone in the tower knew that the one door that mattered most tonight had not opened.
Fang Yingjie stood beside the side corridor and took it all in.
He saw Sixth Master Huang forcing laughter into his drinking.
He saw Scholar Gu and Young Master Xie lowering their heads and quietly gathering up their own small share of disappointment.
He saw Young Master Shen sitting as steadily as before, yet more silent than he had been.
And he saw how Mama Qi, in the space of a few sentences, had managed to prop up a scene that might otherwise have gone cold.
At last he understood that what was truly valuable in Baoque Tower was not only red lanterns, beautiful women, wine, meat, and music.
It was rules.
Guests came bearing gold and silver, yet they still could not decide the rules here.
If Yan Ji chose no one, then the whole tower could do nothing but wait for next month.
That thought had only just taken shape in his mind when Old Zhao's voice came low from behind him.
"Mu Qi."
Fang Yingjie turned.
"Yes."
Old Zhao gave him a glance.
"What happened out front—you saw it, fine. Don't carry it around in your head."
Fang Yingjie lowered his eyes.
"Yes."
Old Zhao went on, "For those in the outer yard, eyes are for knowing the way, hands are for doing the work. As for the rest—think less."
Fang Yingjie did not argue.
"I'll remember."
Only then did Old Zhao point with the wooden tally in his hand toward the gift registry.
"Go. They're collecting things over there. Since Miss Yan Ji isn't keeping a guest tonight, a good many gifts have to be sent back into storage. Some guests will want theirs returned, some will leave them behind. Be careful with your hands."
Fang Yingjie answered and was just about to go when someone at the gift registry was already shouting,
"Old Zhao! Young Master Shen's zither—Mama Qi says not to send it to the storeroom yet. Take it to the outer hall of the Yan Pavilion."
Old Zhao's brows twitched.
"Who said so?"
"That came straight from Mama Qi. The lady wants to look at it."
Old Zhao turned his eyes toward Fang Yingjie.
Fang Yingjie was still standing right in front of him.
Old Zhao had meant to send one of the older drudges nearby, but that man was carrying two gift chests, while another boy had been called upstairs. The side corridor was in chaos for the moment. The only person with free hands left was Fang Yingjie.
Old Zhao was silent for half a breath.
Then he pointed toward the gift registry.
"Mu Qi."
Fang Yingjie lifted his eyes.
"Yes."
"Your hands are steady enough."
Old Zhao lowered his voice a little.
"Take that zither to the outer corridor of the Yan Pavilion. Hand it over to the people inside, then come straight back out. Keep your head down. Look little. Speak little."
Something in Fang Yingjie's chest tightened slightly.
The Yan Pavilion.
He had heard those two words on everyone's lips all night.
Merchants and scholars had competed for hours, and not one of them had managed to enter.
And now he, an outer-yard servant, was to carry a zither there.
He asked no questions.
He only answered softly,
"Yes."