Shichahai (Part II)

At a quarter past the hour of the Dog, the city gates closed promptly. Just as the gate was slowly shutting, a group attempted to enter. Their leader, clad in a plain blue robe, bowed and scraped as he spoke with the city guards, hoping for leniency. The guard’s face betrayed a hint of impatience; he refused them without so much as a glance. Behind the blue-robed man followed a burly fellow with a ferocious visage and a glaring scar near his right earlobe—a man who had long despised the sycophantic groveling of his companion. Rolling up his sleeves, he looked ready to cause a scene, but the blue-robed man hastily restrained him, fearing he would ruin their plans. Producing more silver from his breast, he finally persuaded the guard to let them through.

There were five of them in total, each leading a horse. Behind the first two, another pair trailed, while in their midst walked a man dressed in a deep violet brocade robe and boots adorned with cloud patterns. His features were as if carved from marble—sharp, defined, and coldly expressionless. His gaze was deep and piercing, scanning his environs as soon as he entered, observing the myriad faces and the setting with habitual vigilance honed from years of war. For him, to be ever watchful and in control was a creed.

The group made their way down the bustling street, where the evening’s liveliness had not yet faded, and all manner of people flowed past. They paused before the most unassuming inn. The blue-robed man hesitated, “Master, this place is so shabby. Shouldn’t we choose another?” The violet-robed man snorted coldly, his voice devoid of emotion. “Don’t forget why we’ve come to the capital.” The scar-faced man cuffed the blue-robed man on the shoulder, making him grimace. “Why are you always dallying like an old woman? Master says stay, you stay. Save your whining.”

The blue-robed man spat in return, “Vulgar brute, you’ve no manners at all,” and slipped inside after them.

Above, the bright moon hung in the sky, stars scattered like jewels. In the heart of the empire, beneath the shadow of the throne, who could not be enamored with such splendor?

The next day, when Meng Lanyi arrived at the Ye residence, Ye An had already gone ahead to Shichahai to await them, arranging a feigned chance encounter. Ye Qianran was fully prepared; the two entered Meng Lanyi’s carriage together, while Juan Bilülan and Meng Lanyi’s maid Qingge followed in another. The carriage rolled along the broad avenue, summer sunlight dappling the eaves of wine shops in shifting patterns. Street vendors hawked their wares, carrying poles strung with all manner of goods; nearby, at a noodle stall, men bent over their bowls. A blind man sat beneath a building, his vacant eyes half-closed as he played a discordant erhu, the occasional clink of coins in his bowl ringing clear.

Meng Lanyi smiled softly, watching Ye Qianran gaze endlessly out the window. When their eyes met, Ye Qianran blushed, a little embarrassed, and asked quietly, “Sister, are you laughing at how little I’ve seen of the world?”

Meng Lanyi’s smile blossomed, “Cousin always says the women of Jiangnan surpass those of the capital. I never believed it until I met you.”

Ye Qianran lowered her eyes, lips curving, “Sister is teasing me again.”

Meng Lanyi tapped her lightly on the forehead, feigning annoyance. “You silly girl, I only speak the truth. Why would I mock you?”

Ye Qianran’s smile deepened, her eyes bright as if brimming with water. “There are so many beauties here in the capital. Sister’s own beauty is unrivaled—surely you jest.”

Meng Lanyi covered her mouth with her handkerchief, laughing. “You flatter me too much. The capital’s unrivaled beauty? I dare not claim such a title. There is another who deserves it.”

Ye Qianran gazed at her, “Who does Sister mean?”

“Gu Qingcheng.”

Ye Qianran’s interest was instantly piqued, her eyes alight with excitement and curiosity. “Is it Gu Qingcheng, the one they call the first beauty of the capital, who resides in the Warm Pavilion?”

Meng Lanyi nodded.

Ye Qianran pondered a moment before asking, “They say her dance is without equal, and her ‘Celestial Maiden Descends’ has made her famous throughout the city, surpassing even Feiyan. Is it true?”

Meng Lanyi sighed softly, lowering her gaze to her handkerchief. “I’ve only heard tell, never witnessed it myself. Ever since she gained fame with that dance, no one has seen her perform it again.”

Ye Qianran was a little disappointed; her eyes dimmed. “What a pity.”

Meng Lanyi chuckled, teasing, “But you’re not a man—why do you care? Don’t tell me you wish to savor her charms yourself?”

Ye Qianran laughed, her eyes curving like crescents. “Though I’m not a man, I too appreciate beauty. I truly wish I could see her with my own eyes.”

Suddenly, the carriage stopped. The groom poked his head in, “Miss, the road ahead is blocked. We can’t get through.”

Ye Qianran lifted the curtain and looked out. A crowd had gathered in the middle of the street, whispering among themselves. Curiosity getting the better of her, she tugged Meng Lanyi’s hand, pleading, “Sister, since the carriage can’t go on, why don’t we get out and take a look?”

Meng Lanyi gave her a reproachful glance, but relented, “If you want to see, how could I refuse you?” With that, they stepped down hand in hand.

As they approached, they saw the cause: in the street lay a crazed, disheveled monk, perhaps in his forties, his triangular eyes and thick lips lending him a peculiar look. His blue monk’s robe was in tatters. Despite the growing crowd, he seemed unbothered, eyes closed as if meditating. Ye Qianran wondered what business a monk had here instead of in a temple.

Someone in the crowd mocked, “Monk, you claim to see the future—have you read your own fortune?” Another chimed in, “Yes, what does it say? Will you get married and have children?” At this, laughter broke out.

The monk was unfazed. Rising, he crossed his legs and intoned solemnly, “Within ten years, I shall hold sway over the land, second only to the Emperor himself.”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Meng Lanyi shook her head in disdain. “The world is truly in decline, when even monks dare boast so wildly.”

Ye Qianran smiled, “I think he’s rather amusing. Sister, why take it too seriously?” She edged closer for a better look.

Suddenly, a cold voice murmured, “Keep dreaming.” It was barely audible amid the laughter, yet Ye Qianran heard it. She followed the sound and saw, standing on her right, a man in a deep violet robe, about thirty years old, his features clear-cut and striking, a hint of heroism in his brow. His eyes were cold as he looked at the monk, lips curled in a trace of mockery, already turning to leave.

The monk trembled, seeking the speaker. When he spotted the violet-robed figure, a strange smile flitted across his face. Scrambling forward, he seized the man’s sleeve. Two servants rushed up to restrain him, but the violet-robed man waved them off, and they withdrew. The monk leaned close and whispered in his ear, “I would present you with a great white hat, my lord. Are you interested?”

The violet-robed man visibly started, then glanced at the monk for a long moment before regaining his composure. In a low voice, he replied, “After the crowd disperses, come to the Delight Inn to find me,” brushing the dust from his sleeve before departing.

The monk’s lips twisted in a mysterious smile as he returned to his spot and resumed his meditation.

Ye Qianran did not understand their exchange, nor did she dwell on it. As the crowd dispersed, she and Meng Lanyi returned to their carriage.

Passing the Drum and Bell Tower, they entered Daanmen Avenue, their carriage rolling slowly forward. They stopped before Tianxiang Pavilion, where a servant hurried out to greet them. Tianxiang Pavilion was famed in the capital, serving officials and nobles. The private rooms on the second floor were especially prized; to ascend the carved staircase was the privilege of the wealthy and powerful. A single meal here could cost an ordinary family half a year’s living. On grand occasions, the place was decked out in opulence that left onlookers speechless.

It was noon, and the place was bustling. The ground floor was packed, tables filled with diners. The manager, spotting them, hurried over with a broad smile. “Miss Meng, such an honor to have you. Forgive me for not welcoming you sooner.” He led them upstairs.

Their party of five drew much attention. The two women leading the way were enough to capture every gaze. Meng Lanyi wore an orchid-pink blouse with cloud patterns, a moon-white pleated ru skirt, her black hair cascading down her back, lips like cherries, eyes bright as spring water, graceful and serene. Beside her, the other young woman was even more dazzling—dressed in green lotus-embroidered silk, her skirt edged with crescent and phoenix feathers, eyes clear as autumn pools, cheeks blushing like peach blossoms, at once gentle and alluring, possessing a natural, effortless grace. Sunlight streamed through the corridor, bathing them in a soft golden glow, like immortals stepped from a painting.

Most recognized Meng Lanyi, but as Ye Qianran had seldom appeared in public since arriving in the capital, few knew her. Curious glances lingered, and whispers fluttered: “She’s the daughter of the city’s richest man, Ye Qianran.” Realization dawned—everyone knew the famed beauty of the Ye family, though few had seen her. Today’s sight confirmed her legendary renown; the men gaped, while the women burned with envy, wishing they could bore holes into the pair with their stares.

Above, a faint laugh drifted down. Ye Qianran looked up to meet a gaze both mocking and amused—it was Wei Zhuang. She felt a twinge of annoyance; why must she meet him again?

He was conversing with a man in a violet robe yet kept his eyes fixed on her. Ye Qianran comforted herself that he would not dare make a scene in such a place, and continued up the stairs. As she passed, she heard Wei Zhuang address his companion as “Your Highness.”

Ye Qianran’s eyes widened in shock, staring dumbly after their retreating figures. Suddenly, she understood the mad monk’s words—“I shall present Your Highness with a great white hat. Wang plus Bai—Wang Bai, meaning ‘Emperor.’”

That man in the violet robe was none other than the late emperor’s sixth son, the current emperor’s uncle, Prince Liu Heng.

It was as if she had just overheard a secret she should not know; her heart thudded wildly.

Not until Meng Lanyi tugged her toward their private room did she come back to her senses, her heart still pounding in her chest.