Chapter Text
Masters Zhou and Wen imagined some hidden well of impatience, but Chengling was no fool. He wouldn't hurry to enter what his father all but called a viper's nest.
"Even in the Five Lakes Alliance?" Chengling had once asked, cross-legged, fascinated by old stories.
"Your uncles are part of jianghu," said Father, with what had in retrospect been a very telling sigh.
So if Wen Kexing wished to drag Zhou Xu up and down a street lined with stalls, under the pretext of getting supplies, Chengling didn't mind. He was accompanying two people who had actually saved his life. And his wounds would have the time to heal, especially the hidden slash across his belly, even if his mother would never watch fireworks again with delight to match his, even if Father would never see Chengling carry out his last wishes.
His eyes burned. Chengling pushed it aside.
Masters Zhou and Wen were easier to watch from a distance. They sparred like Father and Mother had, with words, without malicious intent. Grief rose in his throat each time Master Wen tried to sneak food onto Master Zhou's bowl, while Master Zhou deftly shifted his bowl away from each attempt, face bland but movements the sharp staccato of a man paying attention. They were both so focused on each other, it felt a little awkward. It was even worse when Master Zhou started a conversation with a server for some extended period, usually about alcohol, usually with a slight curve of a smile. Master Wen's face darkened a shade every ten seconds.
Chengling coped by shoveling food down his throat and using the bowl to hide from view.
"We don't need a piece of calligraphy." Master Zhou's voice floated through the crowd.
"Oh, I know," said Master Wen, lightly. "But when one sees something beautiful, it's good fortune to stop and look. Opportunity knocks at the door only once."
Master Zhou snorted. "Then it was not fated to be."
He spotted their profiles after a moment: Master Wen first, rich teal robes and red underrobe as eye-catching as a kingfisher among ducks, and next to him, slouched so that curious eyes passed right over him to reach Master Wen, Master Zhou. They waited in front of a scholar's stall, where a man ground a stub of inkstick, white papers draped over every surface and held down by rock weights. A single unraveled scroll, made of thick paper, displayed his calligraphy with pride.
If a cat is fed fish every day, will it still catch mice?
Chengling blinked. It did not resolve into a more poetic verse, nor anything more recognizably elegant like the literature he had discussed with Father.
"Not traditional," said Master Wen, with relish, "but it has something to say."
This seemed to wake the stall's owner. Still grinding ink, he looked Master Wen over, and gave an approving nod. "I see you are a well-bred, well-educated man."
Master Wen fluttered his fan, slow, smug. "Just a little, in the ways of any amateur."
The man's hand stopped. "The calligraphy on your fan is exquisite." His dark eyes blinked, started at the fan, and journeyed slowly up to Master Wen's face. He was perhaps a few years older than Chengling, but with many more bony edges. "It suits you."
"You flatter me," said Master Wen. "Your writing has character, and would not look out of place on any family's wall."
"If only that were so," said the scholar. He glanced around his stall and shrugged.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes longer, until the scholar decided he had enough ink. He replaced his inkstick with a brush, dipped in the tip, and held his trailing grey sleeve out of the way as he wrote with steady movements at his elbow. On that narrow face, his thick brows furrowed in concentration, and his thin lips pursed. Chengling gulped back a breath of laughter. He looked as though he were penning a missive to the Emperor, every word chosen to avoid offense. Master Wen, on the other hand, had leaned closer to watch the movements of his hand, his fan flapping a slow, even, soft beat.
Chengling peered at Master Zhou, expecting some level of bored tolerance. He found, instead, Master Zhou glancing between the scholar and Master Wen.
"There." Finished, the scholar turned the piece just enough to be visible from where Master Wen stood. He didn't push it forward. Master Wen would need to stoop to read properly, and in doing so come closer to the scholar. "Will this discerning master give a place on his wall to my humble efforts?"
"I don't have the money," said Master Wen. He almost sounded apologetic.
"Think of it as a token of my appreciation." Chengling couldn't put his finger on the scholar's smile, but he had seen something like it on Master Wen and Master Zhou's faces, during their dinner arguments. "Your... fan is very impressive, and it has brightened my day. I only hope this scroll might brighten your wall."
"Sorry," said Master Wen. Now he did sound apologetic. "I don't have a wall."
Master Zhou made no sound as he began to walk away. Chengling barely caught a roll of his eye. He still slouched, even moreso than before, and boredom had crept over his face. It was true, Chengling supposed, that this cut into their time shopping for supplies, delaying the trip forward. Master Zhou prefers being efficient.
"Are we just leaving Wen-shishu behind?" Chengling asked. For once, he did not need to hurry to keep pace.
"He gets distracted too easily and starts making trouble," said Master Zhou. Every line of him was loose and relaxed. "We'll make better time without him."
In the stall, the scholar sighed. "Good rain knows the season, and it will fall in spring. I see it is not yet spring."
"The harshest of winters," Master Wen agreed. Master Wen did not make a sound either as he moved, appearing between one step and the next beside Master Zhou. He tapped his fan against his chin. "A-Xu, you weren't trying to leave me behind again, were you?"
Master Zhou scoffed. "I try, and I never succeed." He glanced at Master Wen's empty hand, opened his mouth, and closed it without saying a word.
"A-Xu," said Master Wen. "You think too little of me. Do you think I would have accepted a scroll that said, 'It flies upward, and a voice asks if it is tired. It says, No.' What exactly does that mean?"
"Who knows? And who cares?" said Master Zhou. He slid aside for a group of young women about Chengling's age. "I'm saving my worry for food."
Master Wen looked sideways at Master Zhou over the edge of his fan. Whatever he found on Master Zhou's face–Chengling didn't quite catch it–left him with an odd expression.
If Chengling were to guess, he would say that Master Wen looked smug.