"Whaa—!"
The moment the words left Xu Buling's mouth, the whole hall broke out in cries of astonishment.
As long as he stuck to his story and refused to budge, the crowd really had no way to force the matter—but admitting it on the spot would have nailed down the charge of "poetry theft."
Yet though they held him in contempt for it, Xu Buling had dared to do it and dared to own it, admitting it openly, so there was honestly nothing more to say.
The man was Prince Su's eldest son by his principal wife. He had bought a poem to amuse himself, been caught at it, and admitted it on the spot—that counted as taking it on the chin. Poetry wasn't how he made his living; there was no need to keep harping on it.
When Song Baiqing, Qi Xinghan and the other great scholars saw Xu Buling admit his fault so cleanly, they all let out a breath and nodded slightly.
Qi Xinghan was just about to offer a "to know one's faults and mend them is the greatest of virtues," never guessing that Miss Song beside him would speak up again.
Song Yufu's face was all indignation and incomprehension, her apricot eyes round:
"Heir Xu! This lyric was written by you in the first place—why won't you admit it and let them brand you a poetry thief instead?"
Because I don't want to die young!
Xu Buling ground his teeth in his heart, while his face had to put on a look of shame; he shook his head with a light laugh:
"This lyric is there for all to see. I couldn't have written it—I copied it."
Song Yufu's eyes flared wide:
"Copied from whom?"
"I..."
Xu Buling's heart gave a lurch, and he froze on the spot.
I'm done for!
Copied from whom?
I copied it from Li Qingzhao.
There is no Li Qingzhao in this world!
Xu Buling's face fell slightly, his mind racing. "Mm... I had a servant go out and buy it."
But no one was listening to that sentence anymore.
Song Yufu's one question—"copied from whom?"—had already drawn the attention of everyone in the hall.
That's right!
Xu Buling's literary talent might be fake, but the lyric was real.
A lyric destined to become a peerless song of the ages—even if Xu Buling had bought it, someone with real skill must have written it, no?
Trade takes two: there is a seller before there is a buyer.
A moment ago everyone had been busy condemning Xu Buling for "poetry theft," and they had clean forgotten that.
The ever-earnest Qi Xinghan, brows knitted, stroked his chin and said:
"Heir Xu, since you say this lyric was bought, may I ask from whom you bought it?"
Xu Buling drew a breath. "I sent a servant out to buy it. I don't know who from."
"When did you buy it?"
"A few days ago."
"Good!"
Qi Xinghan nodded. The great scholars on the platform were no musty pedants—every one of them had spent half a lifetime scrambling through the bureaucracy.
Hearing those few answers, everyone's expression turned strange.
Smiling, Qi Xinghan came down from the platform into the main hall and, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolmaster, circled Xu Buling twice:
"A few days ago... which means this lyric was bought in the vicinity of Chang'an. Correct?"
Xu Buling's brows drew tight. "I suppose so."
"Heh heh..."
Qi Xinghan looked him over. "Chang'an holds a million souls. Half have sat in a private school; of those, only three in ten can read and write; and of those, perhaps fewer than one in ten understand poetry. Correct?"
The many talents present all nodded. Chang'an was the capital, and candidates coming to sit the metropolitan exam were as thick as fish swimming upriver; plenty could compose verse—but measured against the vastness of Chang'an, they were a small circle.
Qi Xinghan gave a light laugh. "Of that group, eight in ten are examination candidates and scholars, and the rest are idle talents and wandering men of the jianghu. How many of them are women—that, everyone here should know."
The crowd nodded again and again. Women could not enter officialdom; many could read and write, and many could versify, but few attained any real mastery. In all of Chang'an, those who deserved the name "talented woman" could be counted on the fingers of one hand.
Qi Xinghan made another circuit around Xu Buling:
"Judging by its mood, this lyric belongs to a woman somewhat advanced in years who has suffered some reversal of fortune... 'The scene is the same, the people are gone, and all things are ended...' Mm, likely a widow keeping house... And the craftsmanship of this lyric is plain to all. With such talent she could not have stayed unknown. This old man has thought it over, and in the whole of Chang'an there is no woman with that experience and that talent. Not one!"
"True!"
"There really is no such woman in Chang'an. If there were, she'd be famous by now..."
Whispers ran through the hall, and puzzlement grew.
Xu Buling looked around the room and spread his hands helplessly:
"I'm a man, eighteen years old, with high rank and heavy authority. All the more reason I could not have written this lyric."
Qi Xinghan's mouth curved, showing a trace of gratification:
"Young, yet modest and indifferent to empty fame—such spirit is rare. Just now this old man was measuring a gentleman's heart with a petty man's yardstick."
Xu Buling was baffled. "You can't find anyone else, so you conclude I wrote it? On what grounds?"
Qi Xinghan chuckled. "Heir Xu has not lived through such things—but Madame Lu has, widowed and keeping house, watching over my lord Heir all this while. If my lord Heir was moved to feeling and wrote this lyric, there is nothing surprising in it."
"Whaa—!"
The hall erupted. Many princes and noble sons were present, and not a few of them knew of the matter; thinking it over, it really did seem possible.
Xu Buling's eyes went wide with astonishment—he had not expected the old bastard's imagination to run so wild. He raised a hand:
"This lyric is not about Madame Lu. I bought it. Sir, please don't guess at random."
Hands behind his back, Qi Xinghan looked gratified. "It is good for the young not to strive for notice, but Heir Xu should not hide himself so deep. Since you say you bought it, then tell me—from whom did you buy it?"
Xu Buling opened his mouth. "I already told you, a servant bought it. It was an anonymous purchase—I don't know who the seller was."
Qi Xinghan sighed. "If Heir Xu will not admit it, so be it. Justice lies in the hearts of men; everyone here is a scholar, and we all understand how matters stand..."
"Quite so, quite so..."
"Master Qi's words are reasonable..."
I'm finished—the more I smear myself, the cleaner I come out.
Xu Buling had no way to argue his case and could only spread his hands. "Believe what you like." With that he turned, meaning to slip away.
Up on the platform, seeing Xu Buling about to leave, Song Yufu hurried a few steps forward:
"Wait! I haven't finished proving it—I have other poems by Heir Xu right here. 'Drunk, I trim the lamp and look at my sword...'"
"Are you done yet?!"
Xu Buling flew into a rage. He shot up from the ground like a hunting hawk, the fur of his fox cloak streaming, and landed straight on the platform; he clapped a hand over Song Yufu's mouth, hauled the frantic Miss Song up bodily, and in three great strides burst through the window and vanished from the hall.
The whole hall was aghast.
Many a young lady of official family, seeing this uncanny martial skill, all but had stars popping out of her eyes.
"Heir Xu is accomplished in both letters and arms, and so handsome on top of it—he truly leaves other men no way to live..."
"Indeed. A man who understands women so well is a rare thing..."
"If I were Madame Lu, my heart would have melted..."
Compared with all that moonstruck adoration, the great scholars on the platform were looking left and right at one another, a little stunned.
They had never imagined that the heir of Prince Su, famous for being "violent and hot-tempered," should also possess such literary gifts.
Prince Yan, Song Yu, tapped a finger on the table, mused a moment, and gave a light laugh:
"'Drunk, I trim the lamp and look at my sword'... This boy Buling keeps his depths hidden rather deep..."
Song Baiqing's brows knit; after a moment's thought he shook his head:
"Old Qi's argument is reasoned and well-grounded, but Xu Buling is only eighteen. However fine his writing, it would be hard for him to have produced this lyric—and there would be no reason for him to deny it. There may be something else behind this. Until it is settled, best not to spread it about."
And so the affair closed on a note of "doubt remains."
But the hall held so many heads and so many ears; how many believed and how many did not, no one could say...