The next evening, as the lamps came alight, the street outside the Dragon's Roar Pavilion was thick with carriages and horses. Men of letters and poets filed into the towering complex that swallowed half the street, welcomed by bowing stewards, while cries of "Young Master!" and "Brother!" rang out without pause.
The Dragon's Roar Pavilion sprawled over an enormous plot, its five towers—east, west, south, north, and center—facing one another across the grounds. Chaste songgirls did perform their arts there, but the place hardly counted as a brothel; calligraphy and painting, the qin and the chessboard, wine and tea, opera and song—the offerings were endless, and inside and out it strove for one word only: refinement.
The New Year festival was almost at hand. In ancient times there was little enough by way of amusement, so martial-school bouts and scholars' poetry duels had become the great spectacles of Chang'an.
The Dragon's Roar Pavilion was the most famous money-sink in Daye Ward, and in throwing a poetry gathering to suit the season it was not about to be stingy. Several great Confucians of Chang'an had been invited to judge, and a precious sword had been put up as the prize: a blade named Mourning Spring. Great Yue had risen by the sword, and its fighting men and their weapons were inseparable; the sword, moreover, is the gentleman among arms—scholar and warrior alike wore one at the belt, for the same reason a gentleman never goes without his jade.
Mourning Spring was a famed blade in the jianghu. Its last owner had been a swordswoman of Shu, cut down by the Investigation Bureau ten years ago; the sword entered the imperial treasury, was later sold off by the state and bought by a rich merchant, and after passing through many hands came to rest in the Dragon's Roar Pavilion. Only today did it show itself in the world again.
At dusk Xu Buling's carriage reached the pavilion. Snow drifted down outside, and jianghu men in martial dress came and went through the doors. Because so many persons of consequence were attending, the Investigation Bureau had posted sixty Wolf Guards from the Tianshou and Tianjian camps to patrol the surroundings; Wolf Guards worked in squads of three, and a display on this scale was already extravagant by Chang'an standards.
Xu Buling stepped down from the carriage and drew his white fox cape tighter. Eight guards from the princely manor cleared a path through the crush.
A steward stood at the entrance to welcome guests. He looked up, had never laid eyes on Xu Buling before, but caught the Prince Su placard on the carriage and guessed at once who he was. He hurried forward at an even pace and raised a salute. "His Heir Xu honors us with his presence. This humble one was remiss in not coming out to meet you—do come in, quickly, please."
At these words the milling crowd all turned to look, a path opened down the middle, and whispers rose from any number of young ladies and wives of officials:
"So this is Prince Su's heir, Xu Buling?"
"It is! And so handsome—you won't find his like twice in Chang'an. No wonder they say anyone who's seen Heir Xu can never forget him..."
"...his eyes really are lovely, prettier than a girl's..."
Xu Buling frowned slightly, feeling himself sized up like a monkey in a show, and could only hurry inside.
"Oh~ my lord Heir is shy..."
"Heir Xu so rarely goes out, and his reputation is so good—nothing like those wastrel sons of good families... only a bit quick-tempered..."
"...a man ought to have a temper. Look at those scholars who can't truss a chicken—what sort of men are they..."
Great Yue had risen by the sword, and its women were mostly bold. But with Xu Buling's station what it was, he could hardly stop and chat them up; he simply pretended not to hear.
Amid the crowd, a woman in a bamboo hat watched Xu Buling—the man she had glimpsed once before—enter the pavilion, and a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes.
She swept a glance over the Wolf Guards outside the pavilion, then quietly vanished into the dusk...
Glazed lamps spilled their light beneath the upturned eaves. In the great hall of the pavilion's main tower, several dozen writing desks were set in a ring, and the Confucian scholars in literary robes sat at the head—Prince Yan, Song Yu, and Grand Libationer Song Baiqing among them. Song Yufu stood behind her father on tiptoe, searching the crowd, and did not let out her breath until Xu Buling's figure came into the hall; eagerness showed plainly in her eyes.
Scholars stood packed through the hall. Now and then one handed his poem to a servant to carry up, and when a fine piece appeared, one of the great Confucians would read it aloud on the spot.
Xu Buling entered without making any effort to draw notice. He handed his draft to a servant, then went at his own pace to a seat in the hall to drink tea and wait.
But since Xu Buling so rarely put in an appearance, there was no shortage of people coming over to greet him.
He had barely sat down when Xiao Ting—still fresh from the savage beating he had taken—came swaying over through the deep winter, fanning himself, and sat down close by with a light laugh:
"Well now~ Buling, what brings you out today?"
Xiao Ting's elder brother had been Madame Lu's late husband, so it was no great liberty for him to take a senior's tone with Xu Buling.
Xu Buling spun his teacup between long fingers and narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Looking for a beating?"
Xiao Ting fanned himself, unruffled. "This is the Dragon's Roar Poetry Gathering—a place of refinement. Violence is too crude..."
Crik—
Before he could finish, Xu Buling tapped the small table at his elbow. The porcelain lid of his teacup jumped; a flick of his left hand sent it spinning away with a whistling whine.
The white jade ribs of the fan in Xiao Ting's hand snapped clean through. The lid flew on unchecked across half the hall and shot toward the back of Gongsun Lu's head as he stood talking with someone.
Beside Gongsun Lu stood a saber-bearing middle-aged man, his eyes holding a keen light in reserve. His ear twitched; without turning his head he caught the hurtling porcelain between two fingers, without the slightest sound.
The saber-bearing man glanced back, saw that it was Xu Buling who had struck, and gave a slight nod. A flick of his finger, and the lid passed noiselessly through the gaps in the crowded hall and came down on the teacup beside Xu Buling's hand, fitting it exactly.
Xu Buling's brows knit. He looked at the teacup at his elbow, whole and unmarked, and asked:
"That middle-aged man with the saber—who is he?"
Xiao Ting waved his bare fan ribs and glanced up. "Zhang Xiang, Commander of the Investigation Bureau. They call him the Butcher of Ten Thousand."
Xu Buling was a little taken aback. He had gone out seldom this past year, and rarely seen even the sons of princes and nobles, let alone officials great and small. But the name "Butcher of Ten Thousand" was one of those that rang like thunder in the ear.
Ten years ago, when the Investigation Bureau purged the jianghu powers, the man fronting the operation had been Zhang Xiang. That catastrophe in the jianghu had dragged in nearly every power in Great Yue, and even the Princess Consort Su's wasting away into melancholy and death was bound up with it.
There had surely been more than one master hunter in those killings besides Zhang Xiang, but for Zhang Xiang to be the face of the operation, his standing and his martial skill must have stood far above the rest. He loved his saber to distraction, and ten years ago had already made his name across the realm with a peerless "Eight Trigrams Saber."
Xu Buling studied Zhang Xiang for a moment, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and lost interest. He turned his gaze to the head of the hall and waited for the main act to begin.
Xiao Ting had taken that beating at the academy and had yet to win his face back. Hearing Xu Buling ask after Zhang Xiang, he began to needle him:
"Xu Buling, this poetry gathering is all men of letters. If you're bored, I'll go have a word with Commander Zhang—the two of you could have a bout right here?"
The implication, of course, was that Xu Buling was a brute with strong limbs and nothing else.
Xu Buling frowned at the mockery. "Can't I come and write a poem and be a man of letters too?"
Xiao Ting blinked, genuinely surprised. He glanced right and left, saw that no one was paying attention, and suddenly leaned in closer:
"Buling, did you buy poems to join the fun today too?"
Xu Buling's gaze stayed flat. "What? Not allowed?"
Xiao Ting wore the look of a fellow initiate and nodded.
"I thought this wasn't your sort of thing. Good—with that, I'll own you as a nephew after all..."
Bang—
In the noisy hall a muffled thud came, so faint it was barely there.
Several people frowned and turned their heads; after a look, they decided nothing had happened.
Xu Buling sipped his tea with leisurely unconcern. Xiao Ting clambered up painfully from the floor, rubbed his forehead, and jabbed a finger at Xu Buling, fury blazing in his eyes: "You're ruthless, all right!" He flung his sleeve, sat down beside him, and said no more...