Chapter Five
XIAN KNELT on a cushion too thin for the time he’d been upon it; his toes tingling with the need to stretch his legs.
The Reception Hall, pungent with incense, was crowded with bureaucrats and officials, attendants and nobles, who watched on as Marquess Tian, Governor of Kunming, signed the trade agreement with Scholar-Official Park; representative of Manhao’s Sub-Prefect Feng.
The envoy from the river town was small, just four in total, with Official Park joined by two other bureaucrats: a secretary and local magistrate, along with a large, imposing man said to be Captain of Sub-Prefect Feng’s own personal guard.
Why there was a need for such guardians in so small a port town as Manhao, Xian couldn’t imagine.
In fact, the entire agreement puzzled him.
Clearly, the Marchioness felt it of utmost importance.
She’d reiterated it again earlier, when she’d stormed into his rooms, only a few minutes after he’d found his hurried way back there.
Xian had been applying lead-white makeup to the bruise upon his leg.
‘Where have you been?’ she’d snapped.
‘A walk in the gardens to settle my nerves, that is all.’
Her rounded face had tightened, dark eyes narrowing.
‘Liar.’
But with no time to interrogate him, she’d struck him instead; a sharp rap of her fan against the side of his head, where no mark would show. She’d had to reach, for he stood head and shoulders above her.
Xian watched as she swept away in her ruqun of silver and crimson, her hairpieces tinkling with deceptive loveliness. The oddest thought crossed his mind — Song Lim would have snatched the fan from her and returned her strike in kind.
Whilst he waited to be called to the floor and complete proceedings, Xian felt the weight of the room’s stares.
The envoy’s members were particularly curious.
The imposing man, one whose lips seemed naturally set in a sneer, had cast more than one glance Xian’s way.
Likely he was as bored as many others in the room, waiting on the dull signing ceremony to end, but his attentions had Xian shifting on his numbing legs, grateful, at last, for the extra concealment the swaying beads on his veil brought him.
For once he did not have the marchioness’s glare upon him; she was too busy spreading her reddened smile to all those who busied themselves around her, and watching those who watched her daughter, the Lady Tian.
They both sat in regal observance upon the dais at the head of the long room, drowning in their finery as they sought to impress their guests.
Lady Tian sat beside her mother on an intricately carved wooden seat that was all but swallowed by the volume of her gown.
There was no denying Tian looked lovely in a ruqun far more spectacular than her mother’s; a ploy to keep attention upon the unwed daughter.
Lady Tian wore gold and red, with a golden búyào set in her piled black hair; its main pin set in the shape of a magnolia flower, with its dangling tassels holding pearls and jade fish; a nod to the envoy whose town relied on the prosperity of the Red River.
The gong was rung, its deep resonance stopping all quiet conversation in the room.
Marquess Tian made his way back to the dais.
A dull-faced and vain man, who was not so mean as his wife and daughter, simply because he was too distracted by the luxuries of his position to be so.
He relished the pomp and ceremony of official occasions such as this, if only so he could wear his black silk satin chaofu, with its exquisite, vibrant embroidery and daring depiction of a five-clawed dragon at the chest. Regulation dictated that only the emperor and heir apparent may wear such a dragon, but the marquess was not the only noble who flouted the mandate.
Yunnan Province was a long way from the Forbidden City.
‘My noble and honoured guests.’ The marquess spread his arms as he stood before his carved seat on the dais.
‘The agreement is signed. Now, as the ink dries, we shall honour Heaven and Earth with the music of our ancestors. Let the gods bless this union of our cities, may we prosper in our unity. Now we shall signify the unbreakable nature of our agreement with the yayue, danced by the Son of Heaven’s own Imperial child. ’
A ripple of excitement moved through the crowd, in part because they finally got to see the Dancing Prince, and partly in eagerness to free themselves of the formal proceedings and move onto feasting and drinking; Marquess Tian foremost among them.
His love of fine wines and liquors meant cellars well stocked.
Any who came to seek his favour knew what enticed him. He gestured to Xian to rise.
No easy feat when he’d been set on his knees for the past half hour, but the crowd was not alone in being eager for the yayue to begin. Now that the pleasant heat of the huangjiu was gone, and the distraction of the shoemaker’s brusque company absent, Xian’s sense of unease had regrown itself.
Something about these proceedings seemed odd.
First, the marchioness’s obvious anxiety that all go precisely to plan.
She rarely twitched a cheek when dealing with envoys from Guangzhao or Shanghai, whose cities were far more powerful, and their trade more vital.
So why did the meagre port town of Manhao concern her so?
And why such a favourable deal for the town?
Kunming was prosperous, producing tobacco in its fields and copper in its mines, and was an established trade centre for cotton, paper and textiles.
Did they really need Manhao’s red algae, abalone and, admittedly, increasingly rare, paddlefish so badly they were signing over part ownership of one of the copper mines to the river town?
His trepidation unabated, Xian moved towards the centre of the room, where the floorboards lay wide and clear for his dance.
He took his place, and lifted his arms, turning his wrists and splaying his fingers, as though he held a lotus flower in each hand.
Poorly concealed and predictable whispers surrounded him.
‘I see no scars.’
‘They should have him remove those veils.’
‘Probably not even the emperor’s son.’ A snort of derision. ‘Just the Governor up to his usual dramatics.’
‘Is it true he was made a eunuch by that fire? No balls nor cock, I’ve heard.’
That came from Official Park, from where he stood to the left of the dais, nearest to the marchioness. To Xian’s great horror, a smirk tweaked the corner of her lip before she raised her hand to cover her mouth.
Xian dragged in a breath and looked away, only to glimpse the captain watching him again. A prickle ran across his skin as he glimpsed something dark in the man’s eyes. Xian raised his chin, lifting his gaze to the ornate ceiling, painted with a scene of a crane taking flight over a golden pagoda.
How he wished he were that bird, soaring far and high from this sordid place.
Xian waited as the musicians, assembled at the back of the hall, changed their instruments for the yayue. Silence fell across the room, the crowd now hushed, their vicious tongues held still.
The panpipe began, joined shortly after by the first mallet strike of the bianqing, a rack of sixteen stone tablets, each with its own unique chime.
Xian’s body came alive with the first note. Trepidation was torn away, his blood ran faster, his heart matching the beats of the regulated, and slow-paced melody.
The dance stole him, made him light as air and just as free-flowing. He bent his body like a willow, swept his arms as if they were high clouds caught by the wind. He moved as though in a trance, in the most desirable of dreams, free as that crane that watched from above.
His gown was as much a part of his performance as he was, and Xian was nimble with its mastery, handling the pearl white overcoat and earthy red layers as though they were extra limbs.
Every seam, every fold, heeded his command as his slippers marked the intricate pattern upon the polished wood.
The bamboo flute drew him onto his toes, his arms lifting higher to the heavens.
When Xian danced, he was alone in the room. The instruments played themselves; no one watched him. Perhaps only the gods. He felt touched by them when the music cradled him, as close to Heaven as possible for a man whose feet were more often in the dirt and ash.
The lighter chime of the stones was joined by the bianzhong, the brass bells signalling an uplift in the tempo.
Xian never recalled how long he danced; time stood aside, letting him weave a story with his body, and did not interrupt until he was done.
He sank to one knee, and his russet gown spread around him like the surface of the Red River.
The ache of the bruise on his leg made itself known, and he was taken by a sudden memory of the shoemaker’s face; his shock when he’d glimpsed the mottled skin.
Xian wavered, slipping from his contentment, and rising to his feet as he regathered himself for the last movements of the meticulous dance.
He swept back the overcoat, and held the topmost layer of his qun in each hand, guiding the red silk skirts into high sweeping motions, as if they were a tremulous fan surrounding him.
It felt as though he stood at the heart of a storm, and he relished how hidden he was when he performed this move.
Through the swish of fabric, and between the ethereal notes of the panpipes, soft gasps of admiration filled the room.
His slippers hushed against the wood, plain but useful. What shoes might Song Lim make for him to dance in?
Distracted, Xian’s heel caught on a layer. He faltered. A disgraceful misstep.
A hushed cry rose from the gathered audience.
Xian’s heartbeat, already raised by the vigour of his performance, gathered speed. He threw himself into the final stages of the dance, keeping his thoughts aligned to the performance alone.
The last beat of the drum sounded. The echo filled the hall as Xian went to his knees for the last time.
An approving murmur ran through the crowd.
He bowed before the dais; beneath the piercing gaze of the marchioness, and the snide look of disgust from the Lady Tian.
The marquess, though, held a gentler expression, one that many in the audience shared; the mesmerised look Xian saw so often when he danced.
‘In honour of Heaven and Earth,’ said the marquess, rising from his yoke-back armchair, ‘all is done, and all will be. By the grace of the Jade Emperor, we seal this agreement, here and now.’
He bowed to the envoy, and the four men bowed to the Governor of Kunming. The captain, the bullish man whose gaze flew like daggers, only bothered with a shallow bow.
The gong was rung out; eight times for luck and wealth.
Xian’s panting breath shifted his veil gently. He remained on his knees, his head bowed, at the very centre of the room; waiting on the word of the marquess to rise and return to the dais.
He could not do so without such permission.
And it did not come.
There was a restless shift of fabric further back in the room, and from the yard came the twitter of sparrows rushing to their nests as the evening settled in. Sweat gathered at the nape of Xian’s neck, beneath the damp strands of his hair, and his clothing draped like unwelcome blankets upon him.
‘Let us celebrate this prosperous day with a feast and fine wine,’ Marquess Tian announced to a room thrumming with delight. ‘Come, our attendants will show you the way, and you must arrive with your bellies empty and your thirst dry, for both shall be satisfied tonight.’
Marquess Tian stepped down from the dais, slapping his hands together in anticipation of a night filled with indulgence, gesturing to Official Park to follow, falling into conversation with the man as they left the Reception Hall.
The marchioness and Lady Tian rose, their attendants assembling to assist them off the dais, fussing with their gowns when that was done.
Marchioness Shen spoke to her daughter, who nodded, glancing Xian’s way with another of her waspish smiles, before following her father with an arrogant tilt to her chin, and notable sway to her hips.
Xian’s racing heart stuttered. Was this a punishment for his faltered step? To be left here, like a thief in the stocks in the centre of a courtyard.
The audience filed out, in order of rank and importance. Xian watched from beneath lowered lashes while they regarded him as they passed by. Some did so with a certain amount of awe and wonderment; others were less kind, with looks of startled fascination and unconcealed curiosity.
‘Is the prince available for a private dance, do you suppose?’
‘At the right price, I’m certain the Governor could be convinced.’
‘Careful though, there is magic for certain in his steps. Did you ever feel so hypnotised as when you watched him?’
‘Hypnotised was not all I felt.’ A dark chuckle accompanied the ribald comment. ‘Hips of a woman, that boy.’
More laughter joined the speaker’s own, chilling Xian’s warm flesh.
‘How terrible is he beneath those robes, do you wonder?’
‘I’d rather not think on it.’
Xian closed his eyes, taking in the sounds of the emptying room; the twang of an instrument as it was shifted, the patter of feet as the last of the attendants followed their mistress or master.
Leaving him behind. A fate not so terrible, really. Nor unexpected. The marchioness knew him awkward company; not well-versed in small talk and flattery, certainly not knowledgeable on the political and economic nuances of the Middle Kingdom as she was.
The soft scrape of fabric against the floor had Xian opening his eyes, raising his head. He had not been abandoned, but as he watched the figures approach, he wished he had been.