Chapter Four
XIAN TOOK another gulp of the huangjiu from his chipped porcelain cup.
The enamel was worn, the design all but caressed away by many years of use.
His vision swam as he pretended to study it, regretting his first cup drunk so quickly on an empty stomach.
Song Lim sat on the floor nearby, sewing up the ripped cuff of Xian’s overcoat.
The shoemaker’s thick fingers made surprisingly fast work of the task, and he hummed to himself as he worked. A melody that he was clearly inventing as he went along. Xian’s mother would have approved, always telling Xian there was more to be discovered in music if it was allowed to wander free.
Behind them, the fire crackled beneath a pot of something heavily spiced with nutmeg, and Xian’s stomach gurgled at the scent. He’d not eaten since early this morning; a couple of dim sum and a quick cup of green tea.
‘Heng could serve you up some of those noodles. You’re hungry,’ Song Lim said, causing Xian to startle.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Hmph.’ The shoemaker cast him a sidelong look, then returned to his work.
Xian blamed too much huangjiu for making him feel guilty for lying to the shoemaker. ‘Well, what I mean is, I cannot risk eating.’ He gestured at his gown. ‘There is not time for more accidents.’
‘’Spose not.’ Lim bit at the thread, and examined his work. ‘I’m almost done. I expect you’ll have more than enough to eat once the feasting begins.’
Xian took a hurried sip. The rice wine was creamy, and really quite delicious. His belly was warm, and his tensed muscles now slack. ‘I shall likely not be there at the dinner. I am to oversee the preparation of the rooms, for the esteemed members of the envoy.’
Song Lim rocked to his knees. There was a purposefulness in his moves, as though he knew exactly where he intended to go, always.
He jerked his chin at Xian. ‘Up now. Best you put this coat back on, I don’t trust any of the surfaces here in Heng’s kitchen.
’ He cast a scurrilous glance towards the doorway, where the cook had taken the slippers to another room, and presumably a bigger fire.
‘She’s a talented cook, but not one for thorough cleaning, though she’d skin me alive for saying it. ’
They both rose in unison, Song Lim far more forcefully than Xian, for whom an empty belly, huangjiu and tiredness did not seem to be a decent mix. He swayed.
‘Easy there,’ Song Lim said. ‘Best I take that cup from you I think.’ He didn’t wait for Xian’s agreement, tossing the overcoat over his own shoulder and grasping Xian’s hand.
‘No, don’t touch me.’
Song Lim removed his hands at once. Concern brought his brows close together. ‘My apologies, your highness.’ He leaned into a shallow bow. ‘I intended no harm.’
Embarrassment ran hot over Xian’s skin. He shook his head. ‘You startled me, that is all.’
‘I’m a bèndàn, is what I am.’ He took the coat from his shoulder, and offered it to Xian. ‘Here, I’ll let you put this on yourself.’
But it was Xian who was the stupid egg. Jumping like a rabbit in front of this man, who, he imagined, would barely have blinked if the Marchioness’s guards all rushed into the kitchen right now.
Xian took the proffered coat with a nod. ‘Thank you.’
As he slipped it on over his ruqun, the shoemaker turned away. His expression more thoughtful than troubled now.
‘I’ll tend to the stains on your hems. They aren’t near so bad as the shoes. It won’t take long, the mud’s not dried, you’ll be gone from here before I can finish another cup.’
He picked up the cloth and bowl of ash coloured water that Heng had brought, and once again went to his knees before Xian.
‘Stay on your feet if you don’t mind, your highness.’
Trying to appear only half as fragile as he was, Xian laughed lightly. ‘I don’t mind at all. I am well used to being on them.’
He leaned forward, pushing the folds of the overcoat back to keep them out of Song Lim’s way.
‘Stand up straight now, no shifting about.’ Lim planted his hand against the fabric over Xian’s left thigh. He bit down on his lip, and stifled the urge to pull away. There was no way the shoemaker could feel Xian’s scars; there was too much fabric.‘Good, good. That’s it. Thank you.’
Song Lim took his hand away, with no apology. So focused, he’d forgotten already Xian’s professed aversion to touch.
He worked in silence for a few moments, then cleared his throat. ‘Might I ask you something, your highness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do they make you tend to the rooms, instead of joining in on the feast?’
Xian’s mouth opened, then closed again, in something of an imitation of Mercy’s own; and like the carp he had no words. Song Lim glanced up at him, and Xian quickly lifted his chin so the veil would sit flush against his face, revealing nothing.
‘I don’t…I am not…’ Xian’s huangjiu-fuddled mind tried to shape a decent lie. ‘I am most trusted, among the household. Her grace, Marchioness Shen, prefers I am there to oversee the servants when they attend the rooms of our most prestigious guests.’
It was the lie he’d been told when he’d first questioned the need for him to be set amongst the maids and houseboys, those who tended the day-to-day chores of the manor household.
But as the years had passed on, more and more of the tasks had been left to Xian alone.
Peace of mind was the reason given when he’d dared ask such questions; a son of the emperor was above thievery or laziness, even one so unwanted.
‘Right, I see.’ Song Lim squeezed the cloth, letting the water drain. ‘It must be rough work, considering the bruises upon your legs. I suppose that one upon your right shin comes from a knock against a table, or a dropped piece of wood when tending the fire?’
Xian stayed perfectly still. He’d intended to conceal the mark when he was dressing, but his panic had chased the thought from his mind.
‘I did not take care moving around the horses, when I was last in the stables.’
The bruise, the size of his fist, was a few days old, yellow tinged around a grey-green centre; from a kick delivered by Yu Ming, when Xian had dropped her hand stove; delaying the warming of her hands whilst he ran to find a replacement.
Song Lim grunted softly. ‘Better your leg than your head, I suppose.’ He looked up from his careful cleaning of the hem. ‘Easier to conceal than a bruised cheek or blackened eye, I imagine.’
Xian’s pulse fluttered. The shoemaker knew. He kept his gaze fixed over the man’s head and nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine it would be. But I had forgotten all about it. It does not hurt me.’
Song Lim still looked up at him, despite Xian’s pleas to the goddess Guanyin that he did otherwise.
‘That is good to know, your highness. Though it must have pained you greatly when it was first delivered.’
The goddess of mercy and kindness was clearly too busy to bother with a feckless prince; Song Lim would not let things be.
‘How long have you been in Kunming, Master Song?’
Thankfully, the shift in conversation sent the shoemaker’s attention back to his work. ‘Not long. A few weeks, I suppose. With far too many days spent fixing soles on old boots and straw sandals. I prefer to create, rather than simply mend.’
Xian dared a glance down. Song Lim’s shoulders were wide, almost too much so for the shortness of his build. A man not afraid of toil, Xian imagined; built strong by his trade and travel.
‘You spoke of Lady Tian, that she gives you custom. That must please you greatly.’
Another grunt; the man seemed partial to them.
‘My shoes will not be appreciated as they should. The attentions of the noble class are fleeting, the moment something more exotic is presented to them, the old is set aside. My shoes deserve better.’
Xian folded his arms across his chest, for want of something better to do, and his overcoat shifted with the move.
‘Ah! Careful, now.’ Song Lim scowled.
‘I’m sorry.’
Song Lim sighed. ‘Never mind me. My temper gets away from me when I worry over my shoes.’ He squeezed the cloth. ‘One more go and you’ll be rid of me, your highness. We’ll have you perfect for the ceremony. No one shall raise their voice at you.’
Xian drew his gaze from where it fixed on the shoemaker’s sturdy hand, and their eyes met. Song Lim did not flinch from his gaze. But more remarkably, nor did Xian seek to hide from such bold regard.
‘Thank you. You have been very kind.’
With another of his dismissive grunts, Song Lim broke the reverie of the moment. He returned to scrubbing at the spot on the hem that Xian could not even see from where he stood. To his eye, the mark was washed clean.
‘It bothers me you view common decency as kindness, your highness.’ Song Lim was gruff. ‘You were sent to Kunming when you were ten? That is young to be sent so far. Your mother must have been saddened by such a distance between you.’
It was as though someone had poured cold water down Xian’s back.
‘She died. When I was five.’ Eighteen years had passed, but the grief still held jagged edges.
A groan came from the shoemaker. He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and bowed. ‘My deepest condolences, may Yan Wang have smiled upon her soul.’
Xian inclined his head. ‘The god of death would have had no choice but to grant her entry to heaven. She was too good and kind to be refused.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Song Lim smiled, broad teeth to match his broad shoulders.
Everything about the man spoke of solidity.
Xian guessed there was a ten-year difference between them, and those years had built the man well.
‘Her son dignifies her memory. You strike me as a kind man, your highness, though poorly treated for it.’
Flattery always made Xian uncomfortable, for it was usually so terribly insincere.
‘My guardians think it important I am kept humble. Their methods may be judged harsh but—’
‘Because they are,’ he retorted. ‘Have they forgotten they rank beneath a prince of the Son of Heaven?’