Chapter Three
THE MAN stepped towards Xian, glaring.
Xian, certain he was to be struck, let out a fragile cry, cowering, his hands raised to protect himself.
‘Stand back!’ Daiyu leapt in between them. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘What do you both think I’m doing? I will not strike him.
’ The man’s voice raised with incredulity.
‘Lower your hands, man, and stand up straight. It’s not enough you ruined my lunch, now you’re acting as though I’m some kind of yeren come down from my mountain to feast on fools who knock food from my hand. ’
This forward man was certainly not that wild man of lore — neither hairy nor showing a vicious set of razor-sharp teeth — but he had clearly been angry.
Xian slowly lowered his hands, his pulse still frantic, his shock mingling with shame at being so quick to cower.
But he’d learned a quick temper so often accompanied a swinging hand.
‘Master Song, enough,’ Heng said. ‘Keep that mouth closed. Do I not tell you that often enough?’
‘Who is this man, Heng?’ Daiyu demanded, still standing between Xian and the irate fellow.
‘He is—‘ Heng began.
‘I can speak for myself.’ The man sucked his sauce-stained fingers.
He wore his mandated queue haircut daringly forward; allowing his hairline to remain high on his crown, nearer to his forehead, rather than shaved back as the Imperial Palace preferred.
‘I am Song Lim, and I am a shoemaker of the greatest renown.’
‘You are intolerably out of line, that is what you are,’ said Daiyu. ‘How dare you speak that way to His Highness.’
‘His highness?’ Master Song scowled, peering around Daiyu, for he was not a tall enough man to see over her. ‘Why would a royal be running about knocking food from people’s hands?’
Heng and Daiyu gasped in unison, whilst Xian’s chest tightened. He was normally ready for any mockery sent his way, but today his nerves were sharpened to a point, his anxiety making him light-headed.
‘Master Song!’ Heng stepped forward, reaching for the bowl he still held. ‘This will be the last bowl of my zhajianmian you’ll ever eat, if you don’t humble yourself at once.’
The threat of losing the fried sauce noodles brought a look of horror to Song Lim’s face, and he tugged the bowl close to his chest.
‘That is cruelty of the highest order, Gao Heng.’ His brown eyes widened. The man was older than Xian and Daiyu but not so old as Heng, who looked to be in her fourth decade. ‘And tells me you no longer wish me to make those boots we spoke of.’
Heng let go of the bowl. ‘Well, let’s be reasonable here. I simply suggested you show some respect.’
Master Song huffed, but his lips tilted in a smile. ‘I suppose a deal can be made.’
Stepping to one side to avoid Daiyu’s continuing glare, Song Lim made a vague attempt at a bow, as protocol dictated, before he stepped over a piece of pork belly, and advanced on Xian once again.
Xian held his ground, though his palms grew damp with each step closer the man came. Song Lim squinted, staring hard at Xian’s face. Such intense scrutiny was hardly new, but that did not make it any easier to bear.
‘No closer,’ he whispered.
The shoemaker stopped abruptly, confusion filling his face briefly, before it slipped away, replaced with something Xian could not properly decipher.
‘No closer,’ he said, assuredly. ‘Though I promise you, you are safe with me.’
‘I should bloody well hope so.’ Daiyu said, chin tilted proudly. ‘I’ve a way with a knife you’d not suspect.’
Song Lim’s grin dimpled his cheeks. ‘Oh I don’t doubt it. Spirited one, aren’t you?’ Before she could answer, he nodded towards Xian. ‘Won’t do to go around like that.’
For one horrible moment, Xian thought his veil had come loose, revealing his scars. He raised a trembling hand and found the veil was precisely where it ought to be.
‘No, not on the material, just the pearls, just there,’ Song Lim said gruffly. ‘Here, let me tend to it.’ He raised his hand, though slower this time. ‘Can I do that, your highness?’
Xian did not flinch this time, nor did he wish anyone here to recall how quickly he’d become a trembling mess before.
‘Of course he minds, you—’
‘It’s alright, Daiyu. Yes, Master Song. Your help would be appreciated.’
Song Lim took another step forward, but kept enough distance between them that Daiyu could have stepped in; as her narrowed glare suggested she wished to.
The shoemaker took hold of the strand and wiped a pearl clean with one swipe of his thumb.
He did not look at Xian as he did so, letting his focus remain upon the task at hand.
Xian used the moment to study the man. Song Lim’s body spoke of strength, of a life often spent outdoors, and limbs contoured by muscles gained through action. Not dance, though; he was too robust, with nothing fragile about him.
Song Lim was also a handsome man.
Xian was not roused by appearances, but that did not mean he didn’t know an attractive face when he came upon one.
The shoemaker, with his sun-touched skin, had a ruddiness about him; a wide nose with flared nostrils, broad cheeks with strong bones, a determined chin graced with a tuft of dark hair.
His muscular physique would be considered coarse by many within the marquess’s inner circle, who sought the delicacy and slenderness with which Xian had been graced.
‘You are done, step back from the prince.’ Daiyu shouldered her way between them. ‘I’m so sorry, Xian.’
‘Prince Xian?’ The shoemaker stepped back, wiping his hand against his dark grey changsan; Xian envied him for the relaxed fit and simplicity of the long robe. ‘You are him?’
‘I am,’ he replied quietly.
Master Song dropped into a deep bow, the thick braid of his royally mandated hairstyle slipping over his shoulder to dangle at his side.
Xian imagined this forthright man being among those who despised having to wear their hair in the queue style; Xian himself thought it unflattering, grateful his noble birth saved him from its necessity.
‘Forgive me, your highness.’ Master Song still leaned into a bow.
‘I’ve attended your sister, the Lady Tian, and had asked after your patronage, but was led to believe you rarely left your rooms, and had no need for my talents.
I didn’t imagine for one moment your royal highness would be here… knocking my noodles from my hand.’
Daiyu groaned.
And Heng sighed. ‘No wonder you prefer to travel the roads and not settle down, Master Song. It is a way to escape from the crowd of enraged nobles that must follow you.’
Song Lim straightened, grinning. But Xian found himself still caught by something he’d said. ‘Lady Tian is not my sister, Master Song.’
Song Lim’s heavy-lidded brown eyes—warm and rich as cinnamon—narrowed further. ‘No? Then why does she call you brother?’
Xian stayed silent behind his veil, wishing he’d not spoken at all.
Daiyu glanced at him and said, ‘She does so to vex him. They share no blood, of course. How do you not know this? Prince Xian is born of the emperor, and was already ten years old when he arrived in Kunming with the Lady Tian thirteen. She has never been kind.’ Daiyu stopped short, biting her lip.
‘Let me tell you, Song Lim, that if you think to secure more favour with her ladyship by telling her what has happened here today, then I must warn you, my father is the Governor’s herbalist. I can make you forget half your life at one sip from a cup of tea, and upset your belly so terribly you’ll never dare be one step away from your matong again. ’
Song Lim raised his brows, looking suitably horrified at the idea of having to carry around a waste pot for the rest of his life.
‘Daiyu,’ Xian gently chided. ‘That’s enough.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, your highness,’ the shoemaker declared. ‘But let it be known, herbalist’s daughter, I don’t need to secure favour from anyone. I spend most of my time turning down requests, I’ll have you know. My skills are unparalleled.’
Heng scoffed. ‘As is your modesty. Careful, you’ll burst with all that vanity. Can you help us, or not?’
Song Lim picked a slice of cucumber from his bowl and flung it at the cook.
Xian jerked, despite knowing full well the sudden movement hadn’t been directed at him, nor were its intentions harmful.
He prayed quickly, hoping no one noticed.
‘You are not in a happy state, are you?’ Song Lim regarded Xian with a thoughtful, but gentle, gaze.
Xian drew back his shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t delay here any longer,’ he said, avoiding the question. ‘Can you assist me, Master Song, or not?’
The shoemaker shoved a surviving piece of pork into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. ‘Best you tell me the problem, then I can decide.’
Xian raised his hand, touching at the torn cuff, then lifted his hem, showing the soiling there.
Master Song drew in a sharp breath. ‘Your slippers are ruined. What in the world have you been doing? I thought princes bathed in yak milk, not mud.’
Daiyu edged between them again. ‘That’s enough. You should go.’
But Xian’s lips twitched. He was astonished at the forwardness of this man. ‘What did you decide, Master Song. Can you help?’
The shoemaker stared down at Xian’s feet, lost in thought.
‘Hmm?’
‘Can you help?’ Xian said, letting the gown fall back over his feet, and setting a soft hand on Daiyu’s shoulder when his friend looked fit to burst with unhappiness.
‘Of course.’
‘Then do so quickly,’ Daiyu said. ‘His Highness must attend the ceremony in a short while…they are looking for him already, and we do not wish for Marchioness Shen to be kept waiting.’
She caught the shoemaker’s attention with that. ‘No, indeed we don’t wish that at all.’
‘Here, here, sit down over here, your highness.’ Heng gathered a wooden stool and set it nearer to where the fire burned in the kitchen hearth. ‘But please take off the overcoat before you do. It needs seeing to.’