(Old Stinky, 9)
When children are small, they always have to do a few foolish things a few times. Back when She Wanlin was still little, he used to “hold the wedding ceremony” with the older and younger girls in the alley several times a day. Ugly Sister crawled into his bedding and begged him, so he agreed.
Who could have guessed that from then on he could only ever be Ugly Sister’s groom and no one else’s. Because of this, the two of them fought for the longest time, and every time, Ugly Sister would knock him senseless and drag him home to hide him away.
The adults, of course, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Not until he turned eight did She Wanlin lose interest in this childish game, no longer wanting to play with the little girls. Ugly Sister got so angry she went off to the medicine-god temple where her cousin-nephew lived, up in the mountains.
She swore that even if An’an cried himself to death, she still wouldn’t come back.
Since she made all sorts of vows like this every day, She Wanlin didn’t take it seriously. He waited and waited, but Ugly Sister never came back, and the adults teased him, saying Ugly Sister was never coming back at all.
He missed her terribly, and grew regretful, so he quietly packed a small bundle and quietly left home — he was going up the mountain to find Ugly Sister, to hold the wedding ceremony with her.
That stretch of mountain road was brutally hard to walk. The little boy fell countless times along the way, was chased by wolves, was teased by monkeys, and wasn’t found by his family until the middle of the night. He fell seriously ill afterward, and was sent to stay at the temple for a while to recover.
The old elders insisted his soul had been frightened out of him.
It wasn’t until he returned to Qinwei Alley and saw Ugly Sister again that his soul, so to speak, returned to his body.
As he slowly grew up, he came to understand, along with his older and younger brothers and sisters, that Qinwei Alley was different from the outside world, and that he and Ugly Sister were different too.
His Majesty, for his part, was quite pleased to hear that he was fond of the little clerk’s daughter next door — after all, the Prince’s estate wasn’t suited to marrying into a great clan.
And so the matter was tacitly approved by the adults, and settled.
But She Wanlin had never imagined that Ugly Sister would leave Qinwei Alley, leave Mount Baiquan, and come out to find him herself.
This calamity seemed to keep growing bigger and bigger, and he didn’t dare think too deeply about it. His mother might tell him he could relax a bit, but what about Grandfather? What about the old ancestors? What did Father think?
Ugly Sister had never traveled before either, and being as pretty as she was, she’d nearly been abducted several times along the way. Fortunately, having stormed out in anger determined to beat An’an half to death, she’d brought along a full stock of “vicious” medicine powders — scattering them along the way, those villains inevitably came to a bad end, though her own journey hadn’t gone smoothly either.
Those “flatbread” bandits had drilled a hole through the bottom of her boat, and her money and luggage were as good as gone for good.
She Wanlin felt that, once he got home, a simple bow of apology would never be enough — not even ten bowls of crane-crest poison could atone for his crime.
Another night of tossing and turning, his mind full of worries, while outside the window the clatter of knives, spears, staves, grappling hooks and harpoons went on in a chaotic racket all night long.
Early the next morning, Little Lamp had only just finished attending to the young noble getting up when a loud bang sounded at the door.
Ugly Sister came in holding up a fine-toothed comb, dragged over a drum-stool herself, and sat down in front of the bed. She Wanlin sat up, yawning, and skillfully braided her hair into a long, black plait, as practiced as ever.
Ugly Sister had gotten hold of a colorful brocade hair ribbon that day, and handed it to An’an, who tied a decorative knot at the end of her braid for her — the kind with two layers of flower-shaped knots.
Little Lamp watched from the side, utterly dumbfounded.
Ugly Sister could never manage complicated hairstyles herself — she wouldn’t run more than a moment before her hair came undone and fell loose. Out here on the road, a braid was still the most comfortable and convenient option.
Looking herself over in the mirror from side to side and finding herself quite presentable, Ugly Sister smiled at She Wanlin and said: “An’an, go have breakfast on your own — I’m going to go keep Big Quanzi company. Big Quanzi’s shy, and once he’s somewhere familiar he gets too embarrassed to eat.”
Thinking of that mountain-like massive body of Big Quanzi’s, She Wanlin looked at her with some resentment and said: “Ugly, honestly, my nerve got scared out of me long ago, and there’s no patching it back together now.”
Ugly Sister gave him a disdainful sidelong glance: “Serves you right! Ha ha~!”
“Ha ha” was a very popular expression among the children of Qinwei Alley, carrying a meaning of disdain, mockery, and contempt.
The flatter the tone, the angrier she actually was.
She Wanlin pinched his own nose and laughed a bit guiltily: “Well, off you go then.”
Only then did Ugly Sister give a snort, dash to the stern of the boat, and leap across to the red boat behind, to go keep her timid cousin-nephew company at breakfast.
After breakfast, a loud, uniform sound of reading suddenly rang out across the deck.
Judging by the sound alone, it was truly earnest and diligent — but the content itself was another matter entirely.
In serving one’s superiors, be respectful. The wisdom of superiors, the handling of affairs…?
Bah!
She Wanlin walked up onto the deck with his hands clasped behind his back. The boat moved slowly, the river wind was light, and more than twenty youths around his own age sat properly on the deck, each with a sand tray in hand, reading along with Ding Yumen.
These were young men who had endured hardship and come out the other side of it — ransomed out by the Nine Provinces Domain and carefully groomed as disciples. Naturally they cherished this opportunity and studied all the harder for it.
Even with someone as conspicuous as She Wanlin strolling by, not a single one of the youths so much as lifted their eyes to look at him.
Ding Yumen sat with his back to She Wanlin, not supervising the students at all, but instead absorbed in painting carefully on a sheet of rice paper laid out before him.
She Wanlin didn’t disturb him, simply walked over and sat down beside him to observe, even studying quite seriously the man’s habits with color.
Noticing that he mostly used ink wash and avoided precious pigments as much as possible, She Wanlin thought to himself: the Nine Provinces Domain really is hollowed out inside — these habits with color weren’t cultivated in a day or two.
But if he’d simply used ink wash throughout, that would have been one thing. Instead, on the desk sat little dishes of cinnabar, turquoise, malachite green, and Buddha blue — which meant the family had once been wealthy, and though they couldn’t afford such pigments now, the habit of keeping them out remained.
Ding Yumen was in the middle of painting Layered Peaks Along the Gorge River, a scene he’d seen every day for the past several days. Yet unexpectedly the man had a refined, introspective nature, and had committed the scene to memory, now bringing it out onto paper.
She Wanlin had studied painting with his grandfather before — not the practice of painting itself, but the appreciation of it.
He could infer a person’s state of mind and mood from their painting or calligraphy, and from there deduce their temperament and disposition, and then decide how best to make use of them.
Looking now at this skill of Master Ding’s, he thought: his brushwork could only be called average — too beautiful, too fine, verging on the mannered and artisanal, the brush and ink too elegant and delicate, ill-suited to depicting the grandeur of layered peaks. And yet he’d painted it anyway, which suggested he harbored some unspoken ambition within — though this ambition was expressed too “delicately refined,” while the water in the painting was rendered with heavy ink, the crest of the waves carrying a certain… unrestrained, surging quality.
Seeing this, She Wanlin understood a bit of this man’s state of mind. It seemed this one was different from the two down on the boat below — he wanted to wander far and wide, to live a different kind of life…
Having thought all this through, in truth he’d only glanced at the painting for a moment. Once done looking, he turned his attention to those who had once knelt at the mouth of Quanhou Street, having been sold like merchandise… these very youths here.
Truly interesting — what fine methods the Nine Provinces Domain had! Just a few days unseen, and their spirit and bearing had clearly been reconditioned; even their backbones now carried a certain uprightness.
The youths didn’t realize it, but although he was close to them in age, he was no longer the same kind of person as they were.
In truth, She Wanlin held something of a misunderstanding about Ding Yumen. Growing up in the palace and in the Prince’s estate, the paintings and calligraphy he’d seen from childhood were all masterworks of great masters, works imbued with complete artistic spirit. Comparing accomplished works like those to Ding Yumen’s painting was, frankly, unfair to the man.
This child had been born at the very pinnacle, and to judge Master Ding’s brushwork as “mannered” — if this teacher knew, he’d probably cough up blood.
After all, Ding Yumen had once carried a reputation in the martial world in his younger years, known as the “Twin Marvel Scholar” — not referring to his martial skill, but to his rather proud mastery of both painting and calligraphy.
Having his prized skill glanced at just once and judged this way left Master Ding feeling somewhat put out inside. Just as She Wanlin had deduced of him, being refined, he was also thin-skinned — in short, not a man of great magnanimity.
And so he set down his brush, wiped his hands with a cloth, and said with a smile: “A crude piece of work, I’m afraid it must amuse the young noble. Did you rest well last night?”
She Wanlin turned to look him up and down, and noticed, where the man’s sleeve had unintentionally slipped, a length of white cloth wrapped around his arm, blood seeping faintly through.
Remembering the corpses thrown into the river the night before, She Wanlin grew even less pleased, but feigned nonchalance and nodded: “Quite well, thank you. And you, sir?”
Ding Yumen, however, shook his head repeatedly: “Ah, not well, not well at all. Last night, four separate groups tried to board the ship to pay their respects to the young noble.”
Inwardly mocking, She Wanlin instantly put on an air of feigned innocence, glancing left and right, asking with seemingly excited curiosity: “Oh really? Where are they?!”
Master Ding’s mouth twitched — he couldn’t tell if this one was truly playing dumb or genuinely simple-minded — and said: “Those villains harbored ill intent toward the young noble in their hearts, so naturally they could not be allowed to board.”
Of course She Wanlin knew perfectly well how many people had come, and knew full well that their aim was identical to that of the Nine Provinces Domain itself — those old reclusive masters His Majesty kept imprisoned.
They wanted to trade him for those people.
These past few days he’d picked up bits and pieces of talk. Within any sect in the martial world, status was divided this way: outer disciples, inner disciples, formally accepted disciples, guardian elders… and at the very top, the “old reclusive ones.”
To become an “old reclusive one” meant entering a mysterious, profound realm. The very meaning of “reclusive” carried the sense of withdrawing from the world, seeking out a place free of others to undergo a deeper tempering of oneself.
This level was, generally speaking, extremely difficult to reach. If a sect produced even one such reclusive master, business would boom for them, because having one recluse in the household meant they could collect tribute — tribute that exceeded even the court’s tax laws, and was extraordinarily generous. Generally, the martial-world guilds within at least two hundred li around would offer up solid gold and silver at every seasonal festival.
And this silver would, over time, slowly nourish a sprawling martial-world sect into being — much like the incense offerings at a temple: the more prosperous the incense, the grander the temple would naturally grow, and the more believers it would gather.
Martial-world people offered tribute to these reclusive masters partly to receive their protection — put plainly, it was mutual dependence, mutual use.
One could easily imagine that the court’s imprisonment of these reclusive masters had cut off their financial lifeline entirely — as good as killing their parents.
An even higher level than this was to pass beyond seclusion into sagehood — this “sage” level, An’er wasn’t quite sure how to judge. The Little Steward down in the lower cabin was a Half-Sage; it seemed the chef who had once fought his father to a mutual ruinous draw was also a Half-Sage.
His own uncles, and Little Hua, Uncle Liuhao and the others, had all worked tirelessly for years, capturing countless “old reclusive ones” and the like — and it was this that had brought about the current crisis, but also ten years of peace and stability across the realm of Great Liang.
There was no way His Majesty would let their lineage continue — not killing them outright, letting them wither away slowly instead, was already an act of mercy.
Because of that battle years ago, all of Great Liang called his father the “Number One Blade Under Heaven” — no one dared say the title didn’t fit. Grandfather had also said that in the past, His Majesty had truly treated Father well; now, there was more than a little suspicion and wariness mixed in.
Well, an emperor who didn’t harbor suspicion and wariness couldn’t very well be an emperor at all — that was only natural. The She family, grandfather and grandson alike, were rather pleased that the emperor was so suspicious of them; it was best for those in power to have a few more schemes up their sleeve.
A foolish ruler was no blessing to the common people, and a false, hypocritical “benevolent ruler” was even more the kind of emperor who brought chaos to the age.
She Wanlin feared neither Half-Sages nor old reclusive masters, because his family had honed their blades specifically to cut down men like these.
He simply couldn’t imagine — men like Fifth Uncle, who spent his days painting his face and chasing after his future Fifth Auntie-to-be, or Uncle Tong, who always had a string of children hanging off his legs — just where exactly was the impressiveness in these people?
The fighting last night had been brutal — people had genuinely died. So many, dying without ever having faced trial under the law?
…Wave after wave of people kept coming, throwing grappling hooks up onto the boat. Looking today at the fresh claw marks scoring the ship’s hull, ringed all around like a decorative border, one could see just how desperate these people’s hearts truly were.
Never mind that His Majesty wouldn’t allow the old recluses to be released — even if someone dared to release them now, he, She Wanlin, wouldn’t allow it either.
She Wanlin, however, had no intention of answering Ding Yumen’s question, and instead pointed at the youths earnestly bent over their sand trays and said: “Master Ding, is the aim to have these young men sit the imperial exams and enter officialdom someday?”
This question came out of left field. Ding Yumen was taken aback, then said: “We’re a martial-world sect — what use would sitting the exams and entering officialdom be to us?”
She Wanlin merely smiled.
These past several days, this young noble’s temper had always adapted easily to circumstance, and not one sharp or biting word had passed his lips.
But this smile just now — it was not a smile of amusement.
The Little Steward, hands clasped behind his back, was walking up onto the deck, and had gotten only halfway there when he heard the young noble say: “…No wonder His Majesty won’t allow you people to see the chefs. If there existed in this world a group of people who study every day how to cut others down to raise themselves up, feeding on others’ pursuit of profit — in his place, I wouldn’t let you see the chefs either…”
Ding Yumen, furious: “You? This is merely the ordinary words of the sages, sold at every bookshop in the street — why shouldn’t we be allowed to study it…!”
He cut off She Wanlin’s words in anger, growing more incensed the more he thought about it, and was just about to slam his hand down and rebuke him, when the Little Steward’s voice cut in calmly from behind: “Yumen, say no more. And young noble, don’t take offense either — he simply chose the wrong texts to study. He ought to have been taught the way of painting and calligraphy instead.”
The old man came over smiling, and was just about to sit down when he noticed a commotion coming from behind on the deck.
Turning to look, he saw the little auntie from Baishi Mountain, cradling an earthenware jar, feet pounding rapidly as she ran this way.
The girl arrived astonishingly fast. Before the Little Steward could even sit down, she had already planted herself in front of the young noble with a face full of wary vigilance, thrusting the jar toward him without even looking back, saying: “An’an, try this wild honey, it’s so sweet.”
But her eyes clearly said: if you dare bully him, I’ll poison you.
The Little Steward laughed, finding this pair of children rather amusing.
He sat down and said to Ugly Sister: “That temper of yours is quite like your great-aunt’s.”
Ugly Sister put on a face that plainly said nonsense: “Nonsense, I’m most like my mother!”
The two fools of Qinwei Alley — neither of them could manage household accounts, and needlework was utterly out of the question either — this described the mother-daughter pair of the old Cheng family perfectly.
The Little Steward didn’t bother explaining, and instead turned to thank She Wanlin: “My thanks to the young noble for the guidance.”
Ding Yumen, unconvinced, cut in: “Little Steward? This brat, this arrogant little—”
He suddenly found he could only open his mouth, but no sound would come out. He looked at the Little Steward, who was watching the girl stir the wild honey with a stick and feed it to her “little man,” chuckling under his breath: “Forget it. At your age, you really do act without thinking things through in everything you do.”
To call her “little man” right in front of the Little Auntie of Baishi Mountain — this wasn’t the days of Su Bailii anymore. This girl had grown up in that very alley, and though she’d studied medicine, she lived her life right alongside the blade’s edge.
Ding Yumen remembered something too, and sat back down sheepishly, hand at his throat, saying nothing more.
She Wanlin licked at the honey a couple times, found it a bit too sweet, and pushed the jar away, saying bluntly: “Ugly? It’s too sweet, I don’t want it.”
Ugly Sister looked startled, then nodded: “Right, right, sorry~ An’an, I was actually going to steep it in water for you, you’ve had a bit of excess heat these past few days…”
She glared at Ding Yumen once, then walked off cradling the jar.
Watching the little girl’s back disappear, the Little Steward laughed: “That girl is quite interesting — very protective of you, isn’t she.”
She Wanlin nodded: “Mm.”
Ugly Sister might be a bit simple, but she was the best to him, above anyone.
The Little Steward smiled, turned back, glanced at the still-fuming Ding Yumen, then said to She Wanlin: “Still, my thanks for the moment of enlightenment just now. This old man is getting on in years, and sometimes… fails to consider such minor details.”
Surprise flashed in She Wanlin’s eyes as he looked at the Little Steward: “Minor… details?”
The Little Steward lifted his chin slightly, looking at the boy, and confirmed: “That’s right, minor details! Wouldn’t you agree, young noble?”
Anger flared in She Wanlin’s heart, and he spoke without any courtesy at all: “How interesting — minor details? The texts themselves aren’t wrong, anyone can buy or copy them anywhere. But the people studying them are wrong, the place is wrong, and the choice is wronger still!
“Those who study such things ought to stand at court and speak forthright remonstrance — but your kind of scheming is not scheming meant for the state’s use in weighing the gains and losses of ruler and minister, not scheming meant for the wellbeing of the common people, not scheming meant for distinguishing the worthy from the unworthy in appointment and dismissal, not scheming that in the least benefits good governance! None of you are law-abiding subjects — you are the very root of chaos in the state, and yet you dare speak of scheming!?”
The Little Steward drew a sharp breath of cold air, and beneath his hand, the calligraphy-and-painting desk instantly crumbled to dust.
Ding Yumen and the others were all stunned. The descendants of disgraced officials who had been studying there all prostrated themselves at once, bodies trembling.
But She Wanlin looked at the pile of wood-ash and sneered: “Yammering on and on first thing in the morning, spouting ‘scheme this, scheme that’ right at my doorstep — what? All of you claim your words come from the sages’ own books of ritual, yet you don’t even know that my uncle is entitled to the Nine Tripods!
“My grandfather is entitled to seven tripods, my father to five — and I, this young lord, cobbling together what little I have, get nothing at all, yet no one dares say a word about which tripod I use. And what are the likes of you, that you’d dare speak of a chef seasoning the cauldron?!”
Having said this, She Wanlin stood, flicked his sleeve, and walked away.
After a long while, Ding Yumen finally spoke: “Little Steward, today’s fault is entirely mine. Please, punish me.”
The Little Steward looked at him, and after a long moment, laughed in spite of his anger: “Forget it. What times are these — a tiger cub, even while it’s still cutting its milk teeth, must still eat meat…”
Ding Yumen’s head snapped up, beads of sweat dripping down one after another.
While She Wanlin was throwing his temper here, only to have the matter fizzle out shortly after, none of them knew that, out on the official road along the Three Rivers, a magnificently gilded carriage procession was making its way along the river at an unhurried pace.
This procession numbered one or two hundred people.
Among the mounted troops, the soldiers all wore full suits of heavy armor, riding fine Western Tan warhorses that couldn’t be bought in the Yandu horse market even for five hundred strings of cash — and even the precious blades they carried had hilts carved with pure silver filigree.
If the escort alone was this formidable, then the carriage carrying the commanding officer at the rear of the procession was enough, wherever it passed, to shake the very soul out of one’s body.
It was too extravagant, too dazzling — even the horse’s bridle was inlaid with gold, chased with silver, and set with gemstones.
And this conspicuous procession was now, brazenly and in plain sight, escorting the tower boat in the middle of the river.
At midday, five pitch-black steeds without a single stray hair pulled a gilded, multicolored ceremonial carriage that did not stop, only slowed its pace.
This ceremonial carriage was the kind bestowed by the Son of Heaven upon dukes and ministers, generally used for grand ceremonial gatherings — but why would such an extravagant carriage appear out on the official road?
It was precisely midday, and the inside of the carriage was stifling hot. The young lord within, wearing a dark red six-layered gauze robe sheer enough to show skin through it, sat drenched in sweat, eating from five great bronze hot pots.
These were, properly speaking, the Five Tripods — just somewhat undersized, no bigger than the cookware an ordinary family of three might use. Within the small tripods simmered, respectively, beef, mutton, chicken, ribs, and venison.
Dukes and ministers were permitted to eat beef, but not to slaughter it wantonly.
And now, in an age a thousand years removed from when such vessels were properly used for sacrifices to Heaven and one’s ancestors, the only person in Yandu — or in Qingfeng, for that matter — who still ran about causing such brazen mischief was this one man.
The Earl of Xicheng from Qinwei Alley, Xie Ximu.
The man was, simply put, rich!
Rich beyond measure!
And apart from his money, all he really had left… was more money!