Chapter 30
The bamboo beads chimed as Ting-zhi pushed through them, the sound too bright for the heaviness in his chest. His father did not look up from his treatise, but the brush in his hand stilled mid-stroke.
“You’ve been standing there for seventeen breaths,” Master Gu said, not glancing up. “Either enter or leave. You are blocking my light.”
Ting-zhi exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. He stepped fully into the room, the beads settling behind him with a final, decisive clink. “Chancellor Shen offered me a position.”
His father’s brush paused. “The Ministry of Finance.” Not a question.
Ting-zhi dragged a stool forward and sat, his robes pooling around him like spilled ink. “I—I want to refuse it.”
The brush hit the desk. Ink splattered.
Master Gu finally looked up. His expression was unreadable, he lifted his right hand and gave a few taps in the air as if to gather his thoughts.
“You ranked third in the empire,” he said carefully.
“The Ministry of Finance is a good position to start for a man of your talents. You would be in the capital. You would have influence.”
“I want the traveling inspector role.”
Silence. The kind that pressed against the eardrums.
Master Gu leaned back, steepling his fingers. “The position that requires you to ride muddy roads for months at a time, sleeping in flea-ridden inns, writing reports on magistrates and villages that will get you into trouble?”
Ting-zhi mouth twitched. “Your description makes it sound charming.”
“It is not.” His father’s voice was flat. “It is a post for men who cannot secure better. Or for men who have something to prove.”
Ting-zhi’s fingers stilled on the jade pendant at his waist “Or for men who have nothing to prove to anyone but themselves.”
Master Gu studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached for the teapot at the corner of his desk. He poured two cups. The steam curled between them like unspoken words.
“This is about her.”
Ting-zhi did not pretend to misunderstand. He accepted the tea silently, the simple brown teacup warm against his palms.
“Mmm.” His father sipped. “And yet, you have not spoken to Shen Yun-si in two weeks.”
The cup trembled slightly in Ting-zhi’s grip. He steadied it. “A temporary... misunderstanding.”
“About the fact that you are Moonlit Brush.”
Ting-zhi’s throat went dry. He had not told his father. He had told no one. But of course Master Gu knew. Master Gu always knew.
“She does not—”
“She does not yet,” his father corrected. “But she will.” He set his cup down. “There is no middle path with this decision, Ting-zhi. You are choosing not between posts, but between lives.”
Ting-zhi stared into his tea. It was simple longjing, the kind his father preferred. Good, but unpretentious.
“I know what the capital offers,” he said quietly.
“Power. Prestige. A desk that does not move, a house with walls that do not creak in the wind. But I also know what she wants.” His fingers tightened around the cup.
“She writes about bandits and poets and women who disguise themselves as men to see the world. She dreams, Father. And I—” His voice cracked.
He cleared his throat. “I want to give her those dreams. Not in ink. In life.”
Master Gu was silent for so long that Ting-zhi risked a glance up. His father was not looking at him. He was looking past him, at the scroll hanging on the wall—a landscape of misty mountains and a lone boat on a river. A poem was inscribed beside it, in his own hand:
If you are not afraid of power
And have no desire for wealth
Your movement and life are as free
As a moving cloud in the sky
Ting-zhi’s breath caught.
His father turned back to him, eyes sharp. “You realize, of course, that this will not be easy. The Chancellor is not a man who brooks refusal lightly.” He raised a finger. “You will have to convince him.”
Ting-zhi’s lips curved. “I’ve been convincing people my whole life.”
Master Gu studied him for another long moment. Then, slowly, he reached for a blank sheet of paper and a brush. “Write your counter-proposal,” he said. “I will look it over before you present it.”
Ting-zhi raised surprised eyes to his father.
“You think I do not know how to play this game?” Master Gu’s lips quirked.
“I may not be a minister, but I have spent a lifetime watching men like Shen Xu-ming maneuver. If you are to refuse his offer, you must do so in a way that saves his face and secures your future.” He slid the paper across the desk. “Write. And make it good.”
THE CHANCELLOR’S STUDY was astonishingly simple for a man who wielded such power.
There were only a dark wooden desk and a single shelf of books, peppered with the scent of pine soot ink in the air.
There were no curiosities on display, nor any decorative vases with flowers.
The only concession was a very old landscape painting of mist-shrouded mountains on the wall.
So old, that the silk had already begun to yellow and fray at the edges.
Chancellor Shen sat behind his desk, his hands steepled, his expression unreadable. The memorandum lay between them, its edges aligned precisely with the corner of the desk in the way that suggested it had been read thoroughly and set down.
Ting-zhi had prepared for this meeting as meticulously as he had prepared for imperial examinations, leaving nothing to chance.
He was a Flower Scholar. He had spoken before the Emperor without his voice shaking.
Chancellor Shen looked at him and said nothing, and Ting-zhi felt, very briefly, approximately ten years old.
Ting-zhi stood with his hands by his side, trying to keep his posture easy and his voice measured. “I am honored by your offer, Chancellor. The Ministry of Finance is a prestigious posting, and I am grateful for your confidence in my abilities.”
Chancellor Shen’s eyes flickered toward the document. “And yet?”
Ting-zhi inhaled. “And yet, I believe my skills would be better suited to another role.”
The Chancellor leaned back slowly. “Oh?”
“I would like to be considered for the traveling inspector position.”
The air in the room stilled. The Chancellor’s gaze sharpened, dissecting. Ting-zhi did not flinch.
“And why,” he asked, “do you believe you are qualified for such a role?”
Ting-zhi met his gaze. “I know the empire beyond the capital. I speak the dialects of the provinces. I understand trade routes, local customs, the unspoken rules of the regions. I can move between worlds—scholar and commoner, official and traveler—and I can do so without drawing undue attention.” He paused.
“I am observant. I am adaptable. And I am not afraid of hardship.”
The Chancellor studied him for a long, silent moment. “You are also,” he said, “the son of a man who has spent his life avoiding the very politics you now wish to navigate.”
Ting-zhi did not react. “My father taught me to value integrity over ambition. That does not mean I cannot serve.”
The Chancellor’s voice whipped out. “And you would ask a delicate flower of Shangjing to face such hardship?”
A faint smile touched Ting-zhi’s lips as he bowed. “Perhaps the flower is not as fragile as it seems.”
The Chancellor rose without another word and walked to the window. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed out in silence.
Outside, the wind stirred the bamboo, their leaves whispering against one another.
Gu Ting-zhi waited with bated breath.
“Storms are coming,” he finally said. “Perhaps it is just as well you both leave the capital for a while.”
Ting-zhi’s eyes flicked to him in astonishment.
But he did not ask.
Instead, he bowed respectfully and said, “I will take care of her.”