They turn the corner in the winding gallery, and Duan Ling is about to speak, but Wu Du signals him not to say anything for now. He takes him through the myriad passages until they reach a secluded corridor before he asks Duan Ling to sit down while he steps outside to check both sides of the corridor to make sure it really is empty.
The gallery is completely unoccupied. If anyone comes they’ll be able to see them from a ways off.
“Are you cold?” Wu Du asks Duan Ling.
Duan Ling rubs his hands together. “I’m not cold. Mu Qing was the one who took me here.”
“That was rather too rash of him. What did Xie You say?”
They sit there side by side. Wu Du reaches out to take Duan Ling’s hand in his own, and after moving his qi all over his body in the duel, his hands are remarkably warm, and each snowflake that drifts into the corridor and lands on his skin quickly melts away. Leaning on Wu Du’s shoulder, Duan Ling quietly narrates all that happened today as well as his speculations about Batu.
“There’s a blood feud between Khatanbaatar and your family. The late emperor killed Nayantuo, so I don’t know if his purpose for coming here is revenge or not.”
Duan Ling recalls his father’s words — that Nayantuo once wanted a duel with Li Jianhong, and Li Jianhong killed him in a single sword move. His dad killed Khatanbaatar’s master, thus they became mortal enemies. If Khatanbaatar ever finds out about his real identity, he’d definitely cause him trouble.
“Then I should leave as soon as possible. I’ll return to the chancellor’s estate.”
“Stay here. That guy is in a meeting with Chancellor Mu and other ministers of the court since the Mongolians want to sign a contract. Of all places, the palace is actually the safest place to be. When I’m done here I’ll take you home.”
That’s not where Duan Ling’s head is, though. He asks, “Do you know how to dance the Sogdian Whirl?”
“Sogdian Whirl? No I don’t,” Wu Du replies, looking startled.
“Then how did you learn that sword style …” Duan Ling’s not sure where to start.
Wu Du gives this some thought and explains. It turns out that the founder of the White Tiger Hall not only retrieved the swords, he also stole everything from the sects he raided, and robbed them for all they had. While he was there for the swords he also took their secret martial arts manuals. The Sogdian Sword was recorded among them as well.
Meanwhile, the White Tiger Hall had remained vigilant against the Yulin sword sects through the years, so they’ve kept the qi methods and the sword manuals in their sect.
“And you seriously learned it?” Duan Ling says with surprise.
“Of course.” Wu Du seems fidgety, often glancing towards the end of the corridor. He turns his gaze back on Duan Ling’s face and says, “The White Tiger Hall’s responsibility is to guard the Son of Heaven, so we have had to learn a bit of everything. I had to warn Khatanbaatar that he mustn’t start anything in Jiangzhou. As soon as he found out that someone could suppress his martial arts, he would surely not be as aggressive as he would want to be — otherwise who’s to know what’s going to happen. After all, the subject of the envoy’s discussion with the imperial court has to do with what happens at the border.”
Duan Ling only finds out now that Wu Du hadn’t stepped out to challenge Khatanbaatar in a fit of pique, but instead, he was trying to lure the other side into a fight so that both of them would know what the other is capable of. Even if Khatanbaatar has a plan, he would not make any rash moves, wary of Wu Du.
“The footwork you used earlier was a lot like it,” Duan Ling explains, and pulls Wu Du up with him. He crosses one foot over the other, stepping out with his left, and with a turn of his body to the side he starts teaching Wu Du the Sogdian Whirl.
Wu Du’s face breaks into a smile. Since he’s waiting to be summoned anyway, he follows Duan Ling’s steps in the opposite direction, turning and winding his way left and right, following Duan Ling in the Sogdian Whirl steps. Wu Du in his silk robes is quite laid-back, free in his movements, while Duan Ling’s dancing is perfectly standard, with a strong sense of rhythm in every step. Duan Ling hums the song Helian Bo had taught him and they start dancing the Sogdian Whirl in the corridor.
Snowflakes whirl around them; Wu Du suddenly senses someone drawing close and stops moving immediately, but Duan Ling doesn’t have enough time to get out of the way. He follows Wu Du’s gaze and discovers that Li Yanqiu is coming towards them from the end of the winding gallery.
Beneath a darkening sky, Lang Junxia flits through the streets dressed fully in white along ceramic-tiled rooftops, following the Mongolian caravan until he’s outside the inn Khatanbaatar is staying. He vaults over the wall into the back courtyard, and enters the study by pushing the window open. After he steps through, he turns back casually to wipe his snow melt shoe prints off the windowsill, then he uses a rappelling hook to get upon the ceiling beam, where he crouches in wait.
Khatanbaatar takes his party into the room, and aside from the muscular Amga, he tells the rest to leave the room.
The two lower their voices and begin to speak in a language that is neither Mongolian nor Han, but the language used in a third country — Khwarazm.
Crouching on top of the wooden beam on one knee, Lang Junxia closes his eyes, listening to the conversation while holding his breath.
“If we can’t get a letter written by his hand, we’ll have no way of identifying his handwriting.” Khatanbaatar takes out a set of yellowing exam papers, and says to Amga, “Is there any way we can steal a copy of his handwriting?”
“His Highness said that this crown prince would definitely make annotations on memorials and leave behind his handwriting. Why don’t we find a way to steal a copy from the Office of the Grand Secretariat?”
“Just a few characters isn’t enough to prove anything.” Khatanbaatar lights a lantern. Lang Junxia’s gaze follows the lantern light and his apprehension grows by leaps and bounds.
The two yellowing sets of exam papers are essays written by Duan Ling and Cai Yan when they used to study at Biyong College. One of them is stamped with Duan Ling’s seal, while the other is stamped with Cai Yan’s.
“Why am I finding similarities between the handwriting on this letter and the exam paper?” Khatanbaatar asks.
“The crown prince of Southern Chen spent his early years raised by Wuluohou Mu, and he learned some of his reading and writing skills from him. Of course there’ll be similarities in their handwriting.”
“Why don’t we present these two exam papers to their emperor?” Khatanbaatar says.
“That won’t do. After all, the person we need to find is the one called ‘Duan Ling’. Exposing the identity of this ‘Cai Yan’ before we find him confers us no advantages at all.”
“'We waited a full three months before we managed to see Li Yanqiu.” Khatanbaatar adds, “If we want to see him again, wouldn’t it take us another three months? How long will we have to wait?”
“We’ll have to work on this Mu Kuangda.” Amga puts away the exam papers and says, “We’ll figure out something. Let’s not be hasty.”
Still in conversation, the two leave the room once more. Lang Junxia lands lightly on his feet, jumps out of the window, and disappears into the night.
In the palace, it is already too late for Duan Ling to avoid Li Yanqiu. He’s pictured his meeting between himself and Li Yanqiu in a hundred thousand different ways, but he never imagined that he’d run into him right here right now.
Li Yanqiu stops before Wu Du and Duan Ling. He looks to Duan Ling first before his attention moves to Wu Du. Who’s this?
In a daze, Duan Ling stares at Li Yanqiu. Li Yanqiu and Li Jianhong look remarkably alike — with similar eyebrows, similar noses, similar lips — even their statures are almost the same, as if they were made in the same mould. The biggest difference between them is the feeling they each give off; Li Yanqiu is reserved, weak in constitution, exuding an aura of insecurity, and he also seems to face everything with an air of suspicion.
To Duan Ling, the seconds Li Yanqiu spent looking at him seem to last forever.
Wu Du is so nervous that he forgets to breathe. The storm clouds of fate are gathering like the premonition of a raging storm, and every detail may just cause a tempest in the ocean of Great Chen’s future.
And yet the scene they expected to see does not come to pass. Finally, Li Yanqiu’s gaze turns to Wu Du.
“Wu Du?” Li Yanqiu asks, looking displeased.
Wu Du taps Duan Ling, and comprehending his meaning, Duan Ling kneels to give Li Yanqiu a formal greeting.
“I’m the commoner Wang Shan. Greetings, Your Majesty.”
“Rise,” Li Yanqiu replies.
Duan Ling retreats to Wu Du’s side. Li Yanqiu asks Duan Ling, “What is Wu Du to you?”
“Your Majesty.” Wu Du puts one fist in his hand to salute, and he’s about to explain when Li Yanqiu interrupts him.
“He’s the one I’m asking,” Li Yanqiu says.
Duan Ling is silent for a beat, apprehensive; he feels that Li Yanqiu doesn’t show Wu Du enough respect and it makes him somewhat disappointed. In an unexpected twist, they’ve fulfilled Wu Du’s plan ahead of schedule, and predictably his uncle did not manage to recognise him.
For this to happen is well within his expectations; it is also a sensible outcome. And the opportunity that they’ve once envisioned shatters in this instant as well, leaving nary a trace.
Duan Ling regains his composure, and giving himself a second to think, he says to Li Yanqiu, “He’s Milord.”2
Wu Du stares at him, eyes widening.
“What?” Li Yanqiu suddenly finds this quite funny, and proceeds to laugh.
Wu Du is starting to look embarrassed, and so Li Yanqiu comes to realise that the boy is a part of his household; a title like “milord” is something that the errand boys at his house can use, that his wife can use, and the same goes for his servants. It just means “head of the household”.
“How did you come in?” Li Yanqiu asks coolly, “Did Wu Du bring you here?”
Duan Ling doesn’t say anymore, but he doesn’t clarify that Mu Qing was the one who brought him either, so as not to rouse Li Yanqiu’s suspicions. Li Yanqiu turns to Wu Du reproachfully. “Looks like the palace is just like your own rear courtyard to you assassins — a place you can come and go as you please.”
“I would never.” Wu Du adds hurriedly, “ Shan’er was studying at home, and I was worried that as soon as I came to the palace he’d neglect his studies, and that’s why I had him stay behind at the Hall of Jiaotu.3 I didn’t expect him to come looking for me and even made it all the way here.”
They’re not far from the Hall of Jiaotu, so Li Yanqiu doesn’t press him. He turns to Duan Ling, “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Duan Ling replies.
“When did you start staying with Wu Du?”
“Last year.”
Li Yanqiu stops trying to press him for more details, and turns to Wu Du, “Come with me,” and then he says to a eunuch next to him, “Take Wang Shan to the Hall of Jiaotu. It’s too cold outside.”
Wu Du sends Duan Ling a glance to let him know he need not worry. Duan Ling is then brought to the Hall of Jiaotu; he looks around, and thinks the palace is truly too big of a place. There are only two eunuchs waiting on him in the entire hall. They bring him a bowl of sweet sticky rice dumplings in ginger syrup.
It’s pretty boring living in the palace, Duan Ling thinks; what a huge home to have, but how empty, deserted and cheerless. He recalls that his father spent years on end leading the army outside of the capital, and that only his uncle Li Yanqiu remained at his grandpa’s side — that is to say, Li Yanqiu spent most of his time on his own in the palace, and maybe he was very lonely. Perhaps the eunuchs, bodyguards, the officials, and even Mu Kuangda’s younger sister are nothing more than ‘outsiders’ to him.
Sitting on his own in the room, and having neither brought his books with him nor anyone to keep him company, Duan Ling lonesomely looks on as the winter sky outside gradually darkens — another day is about to pass. It feels like a lot of stories have come to an end, though he hasn’t done anything at all. He very much dislikes this feeling, and he wants to get home quickly, to sit across from Wu Du face to face, and bring the earthenware pot down from the hearth filled with delicious-smelling food simmered just right, and eat together.
Facing the same scenery that every emperor who’s ever lived in the palace had watched every single day with their own eyes, he thinks of the loneliness his uncle has endured, and it makes him feel rather complicated.
Living in the palace everyday alone, he must have always waited for my dad to come home, Duan Ling thinks. It’s a feeling he can precisely sympathise with; whenever Li Jianhong came home from his years of leading troops out near the border, uncle must have really looked forward to his return, and his anticipation must not be any less than Duan Ling’s own yearning for his father.
Duan Ling rests his head over his crossed arms on the table, a bit sleepy, and when he peeks out from between his arms to check the time of day, he finds someone walking towards him in the glow of the sunset, standing in front of the hall, his back against the last shred of purple twilight.
In the Hall of Jiaotu, the eunuchs are starting to light the lanterns. In an instant, darkness retreats out of the room, sweeping past the person standing outside the doors, and the entire world brightens.
“Let’s go,” Wu Du says to Duan Ling, “I’m done here.”
Duan Ling smiles, walking quickly towards him. Wu Du takes Duan Ling’s hand, their fingers slotting together, and they leave the palace on hurried steps through the corridor. When they reach the stables behind the palace, Wu Du lets Duan Ling get on Benxiao before he gets on behind him, and the two leave the palace behind.
“What’d he say?” Duan Ling asks.
“His Majesty did not recognise you. He conjectures that the Zhenshanhe is most likely in Mongolian hands, and he summoned me to the Imperial Study earlier to give me a mission to hunt down Kublai Khan’s sword so we can use that sword to trade with the Mongolians for the sword of our realm.”
After nightfall it’s blustery and snowy out, and though it may not be the biting cold of Shangjing’s north winds, it’s the kind of damp that sticks to one’s skin. Wu Du turns Duan Ling to his side to lean against his chest as he spurs Benxiao through the streets and alleyways towards the centre of Jiangzhou.
“What about the crown prince?”
“Don’t worry about him. When I came out he was still in a meeting, and I’m guessing he’s already forgotten all about me. Do you remember where that sword is?”
Duan Ling recollects his escape from Shangjing; he started carrying that sword on his person from the day the Mongolians attacked the city. When he passed through the wheat fields, he started to run a high fever, and by the time he woke up again he was in a village in the Xianbei Mountains. The sword sheath had been lost by then, and Cai Yan gave the sword to him. Soon afterwards, the Mongolian soldiers attacked, and the sword was lost in the village. He stabbed a soldier to death with the dagger Batu gave him before escaping from the village.
The last time he saw that sword it was the night the Mongolian army trampled through the village. And when did Lang Junxia arrive? Perhaps those soldiers found the sword and took it with them. Where had they taken it?
Duan Ling tells Wu Du what happened that night, and Wu Du considers this quietly for a little while before he nods to let Duan Ling know he gets it.
“Wuluohou Mu may know where that division of Mongolian soldiers went.” Duan Ling says, “But shouldn’t those soldiers have handed it over to their superiors once they found the sword?”
“Not necessarily. The soldiers who found it may not have known what it was, and kept it, or perhaps they handed it to their superior but their superior had selfish motives and kept it quiet lest anyone would find out.”
Wu Du comes to a stop in front of a restaurant, and before that, Duan Ling hasn’t noticed that they weren’t heading back to the Grand Chancellor’s Estate. Instead, they’ve arrived at a noodle shop. Outside the shop there’s a banner with the five words Best Noodles In the Realm on it, fluttering in the wind.
“This shop’s been open for more than three hundred years.” Wu Du says to Duan Ling, “It’s your birthday, so I’ll get you a bowl of noodles here.”
In all the land beneath the heavens, the only person who’d remember his birthday is no one but Wu Du.
“That’s quite the boast. I heard Zheng Yan is a really good cook,” Duan Ling says, “are their noodles even better than his?”
“Shh,” Wu Du shushes him, and says to him cryptically, “Zheng Yan once lost to the owner of this establishment.”
Duan Ling’s eyes go wide.
It’s past the twilight hour, but the restaurant is bustling, with people everywhere.
Wu Du heads inside and produces a note that he hands to the waiter. The waiter only takes one look before saying, “Please come up to the private dining room upstairs, dear sirs.”
“You made a reservation?” Duan Ling asks.
“A reservation for the Best Noodles In the Realm,” the waiter says with a smile, “needs to be made a month in advance.”
Wu Du starts to frown as though holding the waiter in contempt for talking too much, but Duan Ling grabs his hand and drags him up the stairs to make sure he doesn’t try to teach him a lesson.
“Zheng Yan was the one who reserved a spot for me,” Wu Du explains to Duan Ling.
“There’s no need to explain.” Duan Ling doesn’t even know what to say to him. “What’s the difference?”
Wu Du’s face is starting to glow a bit again and they go to the second floor. There are only two low tables upstairs, with a screen separating them. Duan Ling and Wu Du sit down cross-legged across from each other at one table, and the waiter goes downstairs to get their food ready.
“Today …” Wu Du pauses for a moment to think before saying hesitantly, “You weren’t sad, were you?”
“Sad? I’m not at all sad. Why do you say that? I’m rather happy.”
“His Majesty will recognise you someday,” Wu Du says to Duan Ling.
Duan Ling didn’t really get what Wu Du had meant until now — he’s worried that Duan Ling would be too disappointed, but Li Yanqiu’s inability to see him for Li Jianhong’s son is well within Duan Ling’s expectations. It’s Duan Ling instead who smiles to comfort him, “It’s alright. I knew that would happen.”
“But he did spend quite a bit of time spacing out in the Imperial Study,” Wu Du says.
“Aside from celebrating the crown prince’s birthday, did the Mongolians have some other objective?” Duan Ling has a feeling that the Mongolian Envoy’s mission seems far from simple.
“Can we not talk about those things?” Wu Du says casually, his eyes smiling.
“Fine.” Duan Ling is finding it laughable too, and feels quite apologetic; a gush of warmth rushes forth from his heart when he looks up to meet Wu Du’s eyes.
“Then what should we talk about?” Duan Ling asks.
On second thought, Wu Du doesn’t think there’s anything they must talk about either — after all, they’re together day and night, and whatever needs to be said has already been said.
“This is a place I’ve been to the first time I came to Jiangzhou,” Wu Du says.
“My dad once told me that when spring comes to Jiangzhou and the peach blossoms bloom, the city is gorgeous.”
When he hears Duan Ling speak of his father, Wu Du seems a bit uneasy. He heaves a sigh and gives him a smile tinged with remorse.
“Is there any place you’d like to see?” Wu Du says.
Duan Ling recalls the words Li Jianhong said to him.
“I want to see Diannan, and Yubiguan. I want to see all the beautiful places in the realm. To see a lake as still as a mirror, where the water is always sweet beneath a mountain of snow … and I want to see the ocean too.”
Duan Ling thinks of his father; if he’s still here, would he be celebrating his birthday with him today? But Wu Du is saying, “Shan’er.”
“What?”
Wu Du seems on tenterhooks as though he wants to tell him something, but his cheeks are burning harder as he considers his words. He picks up his cup, looks down to take a sip of his tea, and turns his gaze elsewhere.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
Duan Ling calls Wu Du 老爺 “laoye”, a generic title for the head of a household, which I translate to an exclusive title reserved for Wu Du. It implies “my lord and master” as in husband, but it’s subtle in that “laoye” is also what he used to call Mu Kuangda. (He now refers to Mu Kuangda as his teacher, or master.) ↩︎
A Jiaotu is a mythological creature, the dragon-son between a dragon and a clam. ↩︎
They turn the corner in the winding gallery, and Duan Ling is about to speak, but Wu Du signals him not to say anything for now. He takes him through the myriad passages until they reach a secluded corridor before he asks Duan Ling to sit down while he steps outside to check both sides of the corridor to make sure it really is empty.
The gallery is completely unoccupied. If anyone comes they’ll be able to see them from a ways off.
“Are you cold?” Wu Du asks Duan Ling.
Duan Ling rubs his hands together. “I’m not cold. Mu Qing was the one who took me here.”
“That was rather too rash of him. What did Xie You say?”
They sit there side by side. Wu Du reaches out to take Duan Ling’s hand in his own, and after moving his qi all over his body in the duel, his hands are remarkably warm, and each snowflake that drifts into the corridor and lands on his skin quickly melts away. Leaning on Wu Du’s shoulder, Duan Ling quietly narrates all that happened today as well as his speculations about Batu.
“There’s a blood feud between Khatanbaatar and your family. The late emperor killed Nayantuo, so I don’t know if his purpose for coming here is revenge or not.”
Duan Ling recalls his father’s words — that Nayantuo once wanted a duel with Li Jianhong, and Li Jianhong killed him in a single sword move. His dad killed Khatanbaatar’s master, thus they became mortal enemies. If Khatanbaatar ever finds out about his real identity, he’d definitely cause him trouble.
“Then I should leave as soon as possible. I’ll return to the chancellor’s estate.”
“Stay here. That guy is in a meeting with Chancellor Mu and other ministers of the court since the Mongolians want to sign a contract. Of all places, the palace is actually the safest place to be. When I’m done here I’ll take you home.”
That’s not where Duan Ling’s head is, though. He asks, “Do you know how to dance the Sogdian Whirl?”
“Sogdian Whirl? No I don’t,” Wu Du replies, looking startled.
“Then how did you learn that sword style …” Duan Ling’s not sure where to start.
Wu Du gives this some thought and explains. It turns out that the founder of the White Tiger Hall not only retrieved the swords, he also stole everything from the sects he raided, and robbed them for all they had. While he was there for the swords he also took their secret martial arts manuals. The Sogdian Sword was recorded among them as well.
Meanwhile, the White Tiger Hall had remained vigilant against the Yulin sword sects through the years, so they’ve kept the qi methods and the sword manuals in their sect.
“And you seriously learned it?” Duan Ling says with surprise.
“Of course.” Wu Du seems fidgety, often glancing towards the end of the corridor. He turns his gaze back on Duan Ling’s face and says, “The White Tiger Hall’s responsibility is to guard the Son of Heaven, so we have had to learn a bit of everything. I had to warn Khatanbaatar that he mustn’t start anything in Jiangzhou. As soon as he found out that someone could suppress his martial arts, he would surely not be as aggressive as he would want to be — otherwise who’s to know what’s going to happen. After all, the subject of the envoy’s discussion with the imperial court has to do with what happens at the border.”
Duan Ling only finds out now that Wu Du hadn’t stepped out to challenge Khatanbaatar in a fit of pique, but instead, he was trying to lure the other side into a fight so that both of them would know what the other is capable of. Even if Khatanbaatar has a plan, he would not make any rash moves, wary of Wu Du.
“The footwork you used earlier was a lot like it,” Duan Ling explains, and pulls Wu Du up with him. He crosses one foot over the other, stepping out with his left, and with a turn of his body to the side he starts teaching Wu Du the Sogdian Whirl.
Wu Du’s face breaks into a smile. Since he’s waiting to be summoned anyway, he follows Duan Ling’s steps in the opposite direction, turning and winding his way left and right, following Duan Ling in the Sogdian Whirl steps. Wu Du in his silk robes is quite laid-back, free in his movements, while Duan Ling’s dancing is perfectly standard, with a strong sense of rhythm in every step. Duan Ling hums the song Helian Bo had taught him and they start dancing the Sogdian Whirl in the corridor.
Snowflakes whirl around them; Wu Du suddenly senses someone drawing close and stops moving immediately, but Duan Ling doesn’t have enough time to get out of the way. He follows Wu Du’s gaze and discovers that Li Yanqiu is coming towards them from the end of the winding gallery.
Beneath a darkening sky, Lang Junxia flits through the streets dressed fully in white along ceramic-tiled rooftops, following the Mongolian caravan until he’s outside the inn Khatanbaatar is staying. He vaults over the wall into the back courtyard, and enters the study by pushing the window open. After he steps through, he turns back casually to wipe his snow melt shoe prints off the windowsill, then he uses a rappelling hook to get upon the ceiling beam, where he crouches in wait.
Khatanbaatar takes his party into the room, and aside from the muscular Amga, he tells the rest to leave the room.
The two lower their voices and begin to speak in a language that is neither Mongolian nor Han, but the language used in a third country — Khwarazm.
Crouching on top of the wooden beam on one knee, Lang Junxia closes his eyes, listening to the conversation while holding his breath.
“If we can’t get a letter written by his hand, we’ll have no way of identifying his handwriting.” Khatanbaatar takes out a set of yellowing exam papers, and says to Amga, “Is there any way we can steal a copy of his handwriting?”
“His Highness said that this crown prince would definitely make annotations on memorials and leave behind his handwriting. Why don’t we find a way to steal a copy from the Office of the Grand Secretariat?”
“Just a few characters isn’t enough to prove anything.” Khatanbaatar lights a lantern. Lang Junxia’s gaze follows the lantern light and his apprehension grows by leaps and bounds.
The two yellowing sets of exam papers are essays written by Duan Ling and Cai Yan when they used to study at Biyong College. One of them is stamped with Duan Ling’s seal, while the other is stamped with Cai Yan’s.
“Why am I finding similarities between the handwriting on this letter and the exam paper?” Khatanbaatar asks.
“The crown prince of Southern Chen spent his early years raised by Wuluohou Mu, and he learned some of his reading and writing skills from him. Of course there’ll be similarities in their handwriting.”
“Why don’t we present these two exam papers to their emperor?” Khatanbaatar says.
“That won’t do. After all, the person we need to find is the one called ‘Duan Ling’. Exposing the identity of this ‘Cai Yan’ before we find him confers us no advantages at all.”
“'We waited a full three months before we managed to see Li Yanqiu.” Khatanbaatar adds, “If we want to see him again, wouldn’t it take us another three months? How long will we have to wait?”
“We’ll have to work on this Mu Kuangda.” Amga puts away the exam papers and says, “We’ll figure out something. Let’s not be hasty.”
Still in conversation, the two leave the room once more. Lang Junxia lands lightly on his feet, jumps out of the window, and disappears into the night.
In the palace, it is already too late for Duan Ling to avoid Li Yanqiu. He’s pictured his meeting between himself and Li Yanqiu in a hundred thousand different ways, but he never imagined that he’d run into him right here right now.
Li Yanqiu stops before Wu Du and Duan Ling. He looks to Duan Ling first before his attention moves to Wu Du. Who’s this?
In a daze, Duan Ling stares at Li Yanqiu. Li Yanqiu and Li Jianhong look remarkably alike — with similar eyebrows, similar noses, similar lips — even their statures are almost the same, as if they were made in the same mould. The biggest difference between them is the feeling they each give off; Li Yanqiu is reserved, weak in constitution, exuding an aura of insecurity, and he also seems to face everything with an air of suspicion.
To Duan Ling, the seconds Li Yanqiu spent looking at him seem to last forever.
Wu Du is so nervous that he forgets to breathe. The storm clouds of fate are gathering like the premonition of a raging storm, and every detail may just cause a tempest in the ocean of Great Chen’s future.
And yet the scene they expected to see does not come to pass. Finally, Li Yanqiu’s gaze turns to Wu Du.
“Wu Du?” Li Yanqiu asks, looking displeased.
Wu Du taps Duan Ling, and comprehending his meaning, Duan Ling kneels to give Li Yanqiu a formal greeting.
“I’m the commoner Wang Shan. Greetings, Your Majesty.”
“Rise,” Li Yanqiu replies.
Duan Ling retreats to Wu Du’s side. Li Yanqiu asks Duan Ling, “What is Wu Du to you?”
“Your Majesty.” Wu Du puts one fist in his hand to salute, and he’s about to explain when Li Yanqiu interrupts him.
“He’s the one I’m asking,” Li Yanqiu says.
Duan Ling is silent for a beat, apprehensive; he feels that Li Yanqiu doesn’t show Wu Du enough respect and it makes him somewhat disappointed. In an unexpected twist, they’ve fulfilled Wu Du’s plan ahead of schedule, and predictably his uncle did not manage to recognise him.
For this to happen is well within his expectations; it is also a sensible outcome. And the opportunity that they’ve once envisioned shatters in this instant as well, leaving nary a trace.
Duan Ling regains his composure, and giving himself a second to think, he says to Li Yanqiu, “He’s Milord.”2
Wu Du stares at him, eyes widening.
“What?” Li Yanqiu suddenly finds this quite funny, and proceeds to laugh.
Wu Du is starting to look embarrassed, and so Li Yanqiu comes to realise that the boy is a part of his household; a title like “milord” is something that the errand boys at his house can use, that his wife can use, and the same goes for his servants. It just means “head of the household”.
“How did you come in?” Li Yanqiu asks coolly, “Did Wu Du bring you here?”
Duan Ling doesn’t say anymore, but he doesn’t clarify that Mu Qing was the one who brought him either, so as not to rouse Li Yanqiu’s suspicions. Li Yanqiu turns to Wu Du reproachfully. “Looks like the palace is just like your own rear courtyard to you assassins — a place you can come and go as you please.”
“I would never.” Wu Du adds hurriedly, “ Shan’er was studying at home, and I was worried that as soon as I came to the palace he’d neglect his studies, and that’s why I had him stay behind at the Hall of Jiaotu.3 I didn’t expect him to come looking for me and even made it all the way here.”
They’re not far from the Hall of Jiaotu, so Li Yanqiu doesn’t press him. He turns to Duan Ling, “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Duan Ling replies.
“When did you start staying with Wu Du?”
“Last year.”
Li Yanqiu stops trying to press him for more details, and turns to Wu Du, “Come with me,” and then he says to a eunuch next to him, “Take Wang Shan to the Hall of Jiaotu. It’s too cold outside.”
Wu Du sends Duan Ling a glance to let him know he need not worry. Duan Ling is then brought to the Hall of Jiaotu; he looks around, and thinks the palace is truly too big of a place. There are only two eunuchs waiting on him in the entire hall. They bring him a bowl of sweet sticky rice dumplings in ginger syrup.
It’s pretty boring living in the palace, Duan Ling thinks; what a huge home to have, but how empty, deserted and cheerless. He recalls that his father spent years on end leading the army outside of the capital, and that only his uncle Li Yanqiu remained at his grandpa’s side — that is to say, Li Yanqiu spent most of his time on his own in the palace, and maybe he was very lonely. Perhaps the eunuchs, bodyguards, the officials, and even Mu Kuangda’s younger sister are nothing more than ‘outsiders’ to him.
Sitting on his own in the room, and having neither brought his books with him nor anyone to keep him company, Duan Ling lonesomely looks on as the winter sky outside gradually darkens — another day is about to pass. It feels like a lot of stories have come to an end, though he hasn’t done anything at all. He very much dislikes this feeling, and he wants to get home quickly, to sit across from Wu Du face to face, and bring the earthenware pot down from the hearth filled with delicious-smelling food simmered just right, and eat together.
Facing the same scenery that every emperor who’s ever lived in the palace had watched every single day with their own eyes, he thinks of the loneliness his uncle has endured, and it makes him feel rather complicated.
Living in the palace everyday alone, he must have always waited for my dad to come home, Duan Ling thinks. It’s a feeling he can precisely sympathise with; whenever Li Jianhong came home from his years of leading troops out near the border, uncle must have really looked forward to his return, and his anticipation must not be any less than Duan Ling’s own yearning for his father.
Duan Ling rests his head over his crossed arms on the table, a bit sleepy, and when he peeks out from between his arms to check the time of day, he finds someone walking towards him in the glow of the sunset, standing in front of the hall, his back against the last shred of purple twilight.
In the Hall of Jiaotu, the eunuchs are starting to light the lanterns. In an instant, darkness retreats out of the room, sweeping past the person standing outside the doors, and the entire world brightens.
“Let’s go,” Wu Du says to Duan Ling, “I’m done here.”
Duan Ling smiles, walking quickly towards him. Wu Du takes Duan Ling’s hand, their fingers slotting together, and they leave the palace on hurried steps through the corridor. When they reach the stables behind the palace, Wu Du lets Duan Ling get on Benxiao before he gets on behind him, and the two leave the palace behind.
“What’d he say?” Duan Ling asks.
“His Majesty did not recognise you. He conjectures that the Zhenshanhe is most likely in Mongolian hands, and he summoned me to the Imperial Study earlier to give me a mission to hunt down Kublai Khan’s sword so we can use that sword to trade with the Mongolians for the sword of our realm.”
After nightfall it’s blustery and snowy out, and though it may not be the biting cold of Shangjing’s north winds, it’s the kind of damp that sticks to one’s skin. Wu Du turns Duan Ling to his side to lean against his chest as he spurs Benxiao through the streets and alleyways towards the centre of Jiangzhou.
“What about the crown prince?”
“Don’t worry about him. When I came out he was still in a meeting, and I’m guessing he’s already forgotten all about me. Do you remember where that sword is?”
Duan Ling recollects his escape from Shangjing; he started carrying that sword on his person from the day the Mongolians attacked the city. When he passed through the wheat fields, he started to run a high fever, and by the time he woke up again he was in a village in the Xianbei Mountains. The sword sheath had been lost by then, and Cai Yan gave the sword to him. Soon afterwards, the Mongolian soldiers attacked, and the sword was lost in the village. He stabbed a soldier to death with the dagger Batu gave him before escaping from the village.
The last time he saw that sword it was the night the Mongolian army trampled through the village. And when did Lang Junxia arrive? Perhaps those soldiers found the sword and took it with them. Where had they taken it?
Duan Ling tells Wu Du what happened that night, and Wu Du considers this quietly for a little while before he nods to let Duan Ling know he gets it.
“Wuluohou Mu may know where that division of Mongolian soldiers went.” Duan Ling says, “But shouldn’t those soldiers have handed it over to their superiors once they found the sword?”
“Not necessarily. The soldiers who found it may not have known what it was, and kept it, or perhaps they handed it to their superior but their superior had selfish motives and kept it quiet lest anyone would find out.”
Wu Du comes to a stop in front of a restaurant, and before that, Duan Ling hasn’t noticed that they weren’t heading back to the Grand Chancellor’s Estate. Instead, they’ve arrived at a noodle shop. Outside the shop there’s a banner with the five words Best Noodles In the Realm on it, fluttering in the wind.
“This shop’s been open for more than three hundred years.” Wu Du says to Duan Ling, “It’s your birthday, so I’ll get you a bowl of noodles here.”
In all the land beneath the heavens, the only person who’d remember his birthday is no one but Wu Du.
“That’s quite the boast. I heard Zheng Yan is a really good cook,” Duan Ling says, “are their noodles even better than his?”
“Shh,” Wu Du shushes him, and says to him cryptically, “Zheng Yan once lost to the owner of this establishment.”
Duan Ling’s eyes go wide.
It’s past the twilight hour, but the restaurant is bustling, with people everywhere.
Wu Du heads inside and produces a note that he hands to the waiter. The waiter only takes one look before saying, “Please come up to the private dining room upstairs, dear sirs.”
“You made a reservation?” Duan Ling asks.
“A reservation for the Best Noodles In the Realm,” the waiter says with a smile, “needs to be made a month in advance.”
Wu Du starts to frown as though holding the waiter in contempt for talking too much, but Duan Ling grabs his hand and drags him up the stairs to make sure he doesn’t try to teach him a lesson.
“Zheng Yan was the one who reserved a spot for me,” Wu Du explains to Duan Ling.
“There’s no need to explain.” Duan Ling doesn’t even know what to say to him. “What’s the difference?”
Wu Du’s face is starting to glow a bit again and they go to the second floor. There are only two low tables upstairs, with a screen separating them. Duan Ling and Wu Du sit down cross-legged across from each other at one table, and the waiter goes downstairs to get their food ready.
“Today …” Wu Du pauses for a moment to think before saying hesitantly, “You weren’t sad, were you?”
“Sad? I’m not at all sad. Why do you say that? I’m rather happy.”
“His Majesty will recognise you someday,” Wu Du says to Duan Ling.
Duan Ling didn’t really get what Wu Du had meant until now — he’s worried that Duan Ling would be too disappointed, but Li Yanqiu’s inability to see him for Li Jianhong’s son is well within Duan Ling’s expectations. It’s Duan Ling instead who smiles to comfort him, “It’s alright. I knew that would happen.”
“But he did spend quite a bit of time spacing out in the Imperial Study,” Wu Du says.
“Aside from celebrating the crown prince’s birthday, did the Mongolians have some other objective?” Duan Ling has a feeling that the Mongolian Envoy’s mission seems far from simple.
“Can we not talk about those things?” Wu Du says casually, his eyes smiling.
“Fine.” Duan Ling is finding it laughable too, and feels quite apologetic; a gush of warmth rushes forth from his heart when he looks up to meet Wu Du’s eyes.
“Then what should we talk about?” Duan Ling asks.
On second thought, Wu Du doesn’t think there’s anything they must talk about either — after all, they’re together day and night, and whatever needs to be said has already been said.
“This is a place I’ve been to the first time I came to Jiangzhou,” Wu Du says.
“My dad once told me that when spring comes to Jiangzhou and the peach blossoms bloom, the city is gorgeous.”
When he hears Duan Ling speak of his father, Wu Du seems a bit uneasy. He heaves a sigh and gives him a smile tinged with remorse.
“Is there any place you’d like to see?” Wu Du says.
Duan Ling recalls the words Li Jianhong said to him.
“I want to see Diannan, and Yubiguan. I want to see all the beautiful places in the realm. To see a lake as still as a mirror, where the water is always sweet beneath a mountain of snow … and I want to see the ocean too.”
Duan Ling thinks of his father; if he’s still here, would he be celebrating his birthday with him today? But Wu Du is saying, “Shan’er.”
“What?”
Wu Du seems on tenterhooks as though he wants to tell him something, but his cheeks are burning harder as he considers his words. He picks up his cup, looks down to take a sip of his tea, and turns his gaze elsewhere.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
Duan Ling calls Wu Du 老爺 “laoye”, a generic title for the head of a household, which I translate to an exclusive title reserved for Wu Du. It implies “my lord and master” as in husband, but it’s subtle in that “laoye” is also what he used to call Mu Kuangda. (He now refers to Mu Kuangda as his teacher, or master.) ↩︎
A Jiaotu is a mythological creature, the dragon-son between a dragon and a clam. ↩︎
