Li Jing laughed heartily and said, “Old Wang, if you can’t hold your liquor, just say so. Why are you resorting to your signature tricks?”

Wang Gui retorted, “We five are refined scholars. You use barbaric drinking methods to force liquor down our throats—why shouldn’t we refined folk be allowed to respond with scholarly methods? It’s agreed then: compose poetry, one poem per person. Those who can’t will drink.”

Li Er sat in the seat of honor watching them attack each other, plucking two grapes to savor slowly. Whether composing poetry or competing in drinking, neither posed any difficulty for him. Chai Shao also sat unmoved—he was accomplished in both literary and martial arts. In his early years of carousing through Chang’an, he had been famous as the leader of the dandies.

Li Jing wasn’t afraid either; he too had considerable literary talent. Poor Li Ji, however, came from bandit origins and had no skill in composing poetry. Seeing Zhangsun Chong holding drumsticks and grinning foolishly, he immediately grabbed him and pressed him to his side, ready to use him as a ringer.

Zhangsun Wuji asked Li Ji in frustration, “What are you grabbing my son for? If you need help, you should ask me.”

“Zhangsun, that’s not right. You squeezed yourself over to the civil officials’ side—that’s your business. But your son is a captain under my command. When the commander is in trouble, shouldn’t this captain step up to take the hit?”

Zhangsun Wuji, Fang Xuanling, and the others sneered at his shameless tactics. Li Ji always found alternative routes in everything he did, never taking the proper path. Even when marrying off his daughter, he had to ask the Empress for help to add luster to his own face.

“Boy, when it comes time to compose poetry, you’ll handle the shares for me, your Uncle Qin, Uncle Niu, and Uncle Yuchi. You don’t need to recite anything particularly good—just muddle through.”

Cheng Yaojin had already assigned Yun Ye his task early on. As for Li Chengqian, he had already been taken away by Li Xiaogong and Li Daozong. Li Huairen had received two more kicks for this—composing poetry was far too difficult for him.

Wang Gui didn’t care. They were just a few youngsters. He, Fang Xuanling, and Du Ruhui were all masters of poetry and prose. Zhangsun Wuji and Chai Shao were no ordinary talents either. Among those on the other side, only Li Jing counted as a worthy opponent; the rest weren’t worth discussing. Yun Ye excelled at mathematics, but poetry was his weak point—no one had heard him compose any famous poems. Zhangsun Chong had a modest reputation, but going up against his own father, Wang Gui didn’t believe he could escape his palm.

The Emperor was naturally the judge, which displeased him somewhat and left him feeling disappointed. He greatly enjoyed composing poetry at banquets, but his status was always a constraint. Every time there was a feast, he was perpetually the judge.

Given Li Er’s temperament, displeasure meant making things difficult for others. If he couldn’t participate and couldn’t enjoy himself to the fullest, then others shouldn’t be able to either. He immediately set down the rules: since this was poetry composition, it must follow proper form and conform to poetic meter. They couldn’t do what Cheng Yaojin had recited last time—”Oh my mother, what a big tree branch”—that kind of nonsense. It had to have meaning.

Once the rules were announced, the military officials cried out in anguish. They had previously gotten by with doggerel like “big tree branch.” His Majesty was blatantly favoring the civil officials.

“Boy, do you have a problem with this? His Majesty has raised the difficulty considerably. Doesn’t look easy to muddle through now.” Cheng Yaojin asked Yun Ye worriedly. He knew poetry wasn’t Yun Ye’s forte, but while military officers could lose face, they absolutely couldn’t show cowardice. Biting off a few chunks of enemy flesh even in death was the tradition of Great Tang warriors.

“Don’t worry, Uncle. It’s nothing. That poem you composed before was quite good.”

“Nonsense! I was pressed into a corner and just spouted gibberish. We’re done for, boy. If even you like my poetry, we’re bound to lose this poetry competition.” Niu Jinda, Qin Qiong, and Yuchi Gong also sensed trouble.

“Uncle, the poetry they compose is merely word games—just arranging some characters this way and that. True masters compose poetry from genuine feeling, integrating their soul and body into it. You could say spirit, energy, and essence are all indispensable. Poetry that emerges this way is either mournful, stirring, magnificently heroic, or concerned with the nation and its people. Great structure reveals great spirit; interrogating the soul provokes deep thought. Everything else is just piling up words—how can that be called poetry?”

Hearing Yun Ye’s boastful speech, Cheng Yaojin and the others finally relaxed. However, these words infuriated Wang Gui, who had been eavesdropping nearby. He shouted, “You’ve enraged me to death, boy! How dare you spout such arrogant nonsense and look down on the ancient sages! If you can’t pile up a few rhyming verses for me today, tomorrow I’ll march on Yushan and see what face you’ll have left to teach students!”

After thoroughly condemning Yun Ye, he embellished and repeated Yun Ye’s criticism of everyone’s poetry compositions. The faces of Fang Xuanling, Du Ruhui, Zhangsun Wuji, and Chai Shao immediately darkened. Together they denounced Yun Ye for not knowing his place, saying he had described the literary brilliance of the realm so contemptuously, and demanded he give an explanation.

Yun Ye thought for a long time but couldn’t recall any famous poems from the Zhenguan era. The two poems Li Er had preserved were only recorded because he was Emperor and historians had saved him some face. As for others’ works, he really hadn’t heard of any.

“Such an arrogant tone from this boy! Proper rhyme and meter—these are new poetic forms that only emerged in the early years of our Great Tang. Since you speak so boldly, recite a good one for me. Otherwise, I won’t interfere when Minister Wang marches on Yushan.”

Yun Ye stood up and bowed to Wang Gui, saying, “I spoke rashly just now. Please forgive me, venerable sir.”

Wang Gui’s expression had just softened when he heard Yun Ye continue, “I study mathematics and have discovered that everything under heaven follows traceable patterns—poetry is no exception. Using mathematical permutation methods, one can indeed pile up quite a few properly rhyming poems. Some are even quite beautiful, like those two lines my Uncle Cheng recited—very beautiful indeed.”

Wang Gui nearly vomited blood. Using mathematical permutations to compose poetry? This was too much!

Li Er calmed the nearly explosive Old Wang Gui and said through gritted teeth to Yun Ye, “Fine, fine. Explain to me where the beauty lies in your Uncle Cheng’s masterpiece about the dead tree branch: ‘Oh my mother, what a big tree branch’—where exactly are these two lines beautiful?”

The military officials all looked worriedly at Yun Ye. Even they couldn’t see what was good about these lines—they were purely plain speech.

Walking to the center of the gathering, Yun Ye made a circular bow and said with a smile, “Distinguished elders, you were all too hasty at the time. My Uncle Cheng had two more lines he didn’t recite. Once connected, it becomes an absolutely wonderful poem that properly rhymes and scans.”

“Recite it quickly! Tomorrow I’m going to Yushan to settle accounts with Li Gang.”

“Oh my mother, what a big tree branch—in spring, moss becomes its leaves; in winter, snow becomes its flowers.” As soon as Yun Ye finished reciting, the military officials immediately applauded enthusiastically. Even Li Er had to admit it was indeed a good poem. The first two lines were straightforward, while the last two immediately depicted the form of the dead tree vividly. Without great talent, one couldn’t compose such poetry.

Wang Gui, who had been ready to explode at any moment, was stunned. Poetry could be composed this way? What was this? No, it must have been prepared beforehand. Perhaps Cheng Yaojin had found someone to salvage his reputation, had a master complete it. They must compose on the spot with assigned topics.

Waving his hand to stop the military officials’ clamor, especially Cheng Yaojin, who was already telling others “That’s exactly what I was thinking at the time, but you didn’t give me the chance to shine.” Seeing Wang Gui wanted everyone quiet, he laughed even more heartily.

After everyone finished their merriment, Wang Gui said, “Young Yun, if you can recite another poem about snow, only then will I be convinced. Who knows if this poem wasn’t composed by one of the great scholars at your academy for Cheng Zhijie?”

Yun Ye smiled and said, “It’s just cobbling words together—simple. In such a short time I won’t worry about refinement, as long as it rhymes properly. If you want good poetry, go back and pick some good characters from the rhyme books arranged for printing at the academy. Listen carefully: Heaven and earth all jumbled together, on the well a black hole gaping, the yellow dog has white upon it, the white dog appears all swollen.”

“It’s over! A thousand years of literary culture, destroyed in an instant!” Wang Gui collapsed back into his seat with a wail. This poem really wasn’t much of a poem, yet it was impeccable in its rhyme scheme.

“Ye-boy, are you saying that if we go back and separate all the characters by rhyme, then categorize them, and finally when we want to compose any poem, we just arrange those characters this way and that until they make sense, and it becomes poetry?”

“We probably can’t piece together masterpieces, but it’s enough to get through drinking parties.”

Hearing Yun Ye and Li Huairen singing in harmony, Wang Gui felt something was wrong, but in the face of facts he had to admit it. In an instant, he broke out in a cold sweat from anxiety.

“So that’s how poetry writing works! Old Wang, Old Fang, you’re really not being straight with us. If you’d told us brothers earlier, wouldn’t that have been the end of it? You’ve let us make fools of ourselves for so many years—truly not being good friends!”

Li Ji finally caught the topic and mockingly criticized the civil officials with veiled sarcasm. Li Er suddenly slammed the table and said loudly, “Boy, you almost fooled us! Poetry is where the will goes. In the heart it is will, expressed in words it is poetry. Moreover: poetry expresses will, song prolongs words, sound follows melody, rhythm harmonizes sound. If you simply call composing poetry piling up words, you’re looking down on all the scholars under heaven. If you have the ability, pile up a fine work right here on the spot. Only then will you have a leg to stand on before spouting your fallacies. Use the fine wine before you as the topic. Boy, I’m waiting for you to give me a surprise.”

Looking at the amber-colored wine before him, Yun Ye suddenly felt Li Er’s topic wasn’t too difficult. So he asked the attendant, “What wine is this?”

The attendant quietly replied, “In response to the Marquis, this is Lanling wine.”

Yun Ye nodded, requested a large sheet of paper, and wrote at the top “Lanling Wine” in four characters. He turned back and asked the attendant again, “What is this wine infused with?”

“In response to the Marquis, it’s infused with turmeric grass, which is why the flavor is fragrant.” Yun Ye nodded and added three more characters: “turmeric fragrance.” After finishing writing, he ran to Li Er’s side to look at his wine bowl. Others had porcelain cups, but he alone used a jade bowl. After examining it carefully for a while, he returned to the paper and wrote “jade bowl.” Scratching his head, he added five more characters: “filled with amber color.” With these five characters, Wang Gui immediately sneered in disdain.

Zhangsun Chong kept telling Yun Ye in a low voice that the rhyme was wrong. Yun Ye thought for a moment, then changed the character “color” to “light,” thought again, and changed “filled with” to “holding,” only then nodding with satisfaction.

Xue Wanren said to Chai Shao with a laugh, “Last time when we were drinking on the grasslands, I drank so much I couldn’t even find my tent. This sweet wine isn’t as good as the Yun family’s wine.”

Yun Ye seemed divinely inspired. In one breath he wrote: “But let the host intoxicate the guest, who knows where is home?” After finishing, he put down the brush, cleared his throat, and loudly recited: “Lanling wine with turmeric fragrance, jade bowl holds amber light. But let the host intoxicate the guest, who knows where is his homeland?”

Li Er recited this poem several times, then let out a long sigh, feeling that composing poetry was utterly meaningless. An elegant affair had been treated by Yun Ye like butchering a pig—pulling out intestines and lungs, patching together this and that to create an exquisite poem. So poetry could also be made this way, completely devoid of artistic conception.

Wang Gui’s tears flowed down his face. Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui’s expressions were iron-dark. Zhangsun Wuji’s expression alternated between light and shadow, and his gaze toward Yun Ye grew increasingly suspicious.