Chapter 38: The Nemesis Arrives—Who Is the True Debtor?

Lifting the teacup, even before the tea touched his lips, the fragrance had already seeped into his very being, making him take a deep, involuntary breath. He Zhizhang, now over eighty years old and long plagued by respiratory ailments, felt his chest clear as the steam washed over him.

“Excellent tea!”

He Zhizhang had yet to drink, but the praise burst forth unbidden. Only then did he take a small sip.

Unlike the prevailing custom of adding various flavorings to tea, Ye Chang’s brew was pure, unadulterated tea. The first taste was bitter, then sweet; astringent at first, followed by a lingering mellowness. For He Zhizhang, who had been drinking wine since early morning and was already somewhat lightheaded, this was a peerless delight.

Aged as he was, He Zhizhang had been dozing off, but the tea’s effect was invigorating, snapping him awake. Unable to help himself, he exclaimed again, “Excellent tea!”

Within moments, he’d repeated his praise three times. Jiao Sui, seeing this, couldn’t resist raising his own cup for a tentative sip. Having talked so much earlier and stolen more than a little wine, his mouth was parched. The tea instantly moistened his lips and tongue, making him smack his lips and take a second sip. He nodded, “Indeed, excellent tea!”

Ye Chang smiled, eyes crinkling. “In a dream I once heard a Daoist chanting a Song of Drinking Tea. I am dull-witted, and recall only a fragment:

‘One bowl moistens the throat and lips,
Two bowls banish loneliness and gloom.
Three bowls search the depths of the soul,
And bring forth five thousand scrolls of words.
Four bowls bring a light sweat, and all life’s injustices
Dissolve through every pore.
Five bowls cleanse the flesh and bone,
Six bowls transport you to immortal realms.
Seven bowls—no more!—and a cool breeze rises beneath my arms...’”

As he recited, He Zhizhang, overcome with delight, clawed at his ears, danced in his seat, and when he heard, “three bowls bring forth five thousand scrolls of words,” Yan Zhenqing, nearby, could not help but turn his head. At, “all life’s injustices dissolve through every pore,” He Zhizhang could not restrain himself, crying, “Stop, stop!”

But Ye Chang did not stop, reciting to the very end. Only then did He Zhizhang beat his chest and stamp his feet. “I told you to stop! This poem should not have been recited for me... No, no, it should be kept for Li Taibai’s arrival!”

He paused, then added, “I am unsatisfied, unsatisfied! What of the rest?”

Ye Chang was tempted to say the rest had been lost to history, but after a pause, he continued:

“Where is Mount Penglai?
A wanderer of Siming longs to ride this pure wind home!
On the mountain, the immortals govern the earthly realm,
Their lofty station untouched by storm or rain.
How can one bear to see billions of lives
Suffer on the cliffs, enduring hardship?”

At the close of this verse, He Zhizhang’s once expressive face suddenly froze. After a long silence, he sighed deeply and grasped Ye Chang’s arm, “My young friend, my young friend, so it is here that I, He Zhizhang, have found a kindred spirit!”

“Sir He, I am but a rustic. This song was merely something I overheard a Daoist chant in a dream. Why such words?”

Yan Zhenqing, visibly moved, interjected, “Master Ye, you may not know: Sir He now calls himself the Madman of Siming. Yet in this Song of Tea, that very title appears! No wonder Sir He is drawn to the immortal path—he is half-immortal himself!”

Ye Chang felt a pang of guilt. He was well aware that He Zhizhang styled himself the Madman of Siming. That was precisely why he had substituted the poem’s original author Lu Tong’s “Master Jade River” with “Wanderer of Siming.” This alteration was sure to touch He Zhizhang’s heart—a little cleverness on his part.

As for the poem’s final lines, though the Tang dynasty was still at its zenith, hidden dangers abounded throughout the land. Even in Guanzhong, the heart of Tang’s rule, Ye Chang had seen signs of desolation along the way. Yet to He Zhizhang, such words might seem unnecessarily alarming.

Having received such a fine poem, He Zhizhang pressed him no further, sipping his tea, while Ye Chang refilled his cup. At that moment, Zhang Xu emerged from his study of the four calligraphic characters, “Is there more? Are there other styles?”

“Drink your tea first—there’s no rush for calligraphy. If you miss this tea, Bergao, you’ll regret it for life!” He Zhizhang, noticing Zhang Xu had paid no heed to the conversation, urged him gently.

Zhang Xu took a hearty gulp, at first not paying it much mind, but after swallowing, he exclaimed in surprise, “What is this flavor... Pour me another cup!”

Ye Chang, still smiling, poured more. This time, Zhang Xu drank with deliberation, savoring each sip before smacking his lips and musing, “This tea embodies the essence of calligraphy—let me think...”

He was about to speak when Yan Zhenqing, who had also tasted the tea, began reciting the Song of Drinking Tea.

Yan Zhenqing had a remarkable memory. After hearing Ye Chang recite the poem but once, he recalled it word for word. More than that, while Ye Chang had merely recited, Yan Zhenqing sang it, imbuing it with music. The difference was profound. Ye Chang knew well that in these times, poetry was often sung, and Yan Zhenqing’s chanting was a craft in itself—far beyond anything he, an amateur in rhyme and meter, could hope to match.

“Splendid, splendid! Old He, even the immortals know your name, ha!” Zhang Xu cheered, doffing his hat and shouting, “Brush and paper, quickly!”

Qin Qinshou, ever attentive, immediately supplied them. Before the crowd, beneath the shade of the trees, Zhang Xu wielded his brush with wild abandon. In moments, the Song of Drinking Tea had become a dance of dragons and lightning, unfurling across the rice paper.

“Well done, Bergao, this piece is masterful!” He Zhizhang praised.

Zhang Xu, reaching to stroke his beard, forgot he still held the brush and ended up splattering himself with ink. He was not annoyed, only laughed wholeheartedly.

Ye Chang quietly approached the fresh calligraphy, carefully shielding it, and bowed to Zhang Xu. “I thank Master Zhang for this gift.”

“Oh?” Zhang Xu was taken aback.

He Zhizhang too was momentarily surprised, then laughed. “Young friend, you are a character!”

Carefree by nature, he cared little for such formalities. Ye Chang’s “clever acquisition” might appear opportunistic, but what was it if not a form of nonchalance?

Zhang Xu glanced at the calligraphy, then at Ye Chang. “Then consider it a gift, young friend. Today, I’ve seen two styles from you and heard your poetry—it’s been an illumination. If only, if only... there were more...”

He drifted off, lost in thoughts of calligraphy. Ye Chang, waiting for the ink to dry, happily rolled up the work. This was a family heirloom in the making; in a few decades, it would be worth a fortune. He could live for ten years on the proceeds of a single sale.

With that in mind, he resolved to trick as many original pieces from Zhang Xu as possible in the days to come.

“Master Zhang, don’t fret. In the next few days, I may recall a few more styles yet,” Ye Chang said, feigning modesty. “The scripts I’ve seen in dreams are not limited to these two or three.”

In truth, they were not. Su, Huang, Mi, Cai, Zhao, and the famously muddled Zheng Banqiao—Ye Chang had practiced them all. Showing Zhang Xu the forms without capturing their full spirit would suffice; the great master would perfect them himself. And if Zhang Xu grew too old, there was always Yan Zhenqing, who was now in his prime—a worthy long-term investment.

Ye Chang’s fervent gaze fell on Yan Zhenqing, who, recalling Jiao Sui’s jokes about Ye Chang’s supposed amorous inclinations, discreetly edged away.

“Ah, think, think!” Zhang Xu, hearing there were more scripts yet unremembered, was delighted.

“But now I have pressing matters to attend to,” Ye Chang sighed. “Brother Qin, where has my elder brother’s coffin been placed? And how did he come to quarrel with someone, leading to his death?”

At these words, both He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu grew solemn.

Brotherly affection is one of the cardinal virtues; fraternal love and respect are always to be praised. Since this concerned the death of Ye Chang’s brother, they dared not intrude.

Ye Chang was, in fact, setting a subtle snare for them. He didn’t know Zhang Xu’s temperament well, but he had gleaned much about He Zhizhang’s from later generations’ analyses. The man cherished talent and delighted in supporting the young. Setting aside the subtle flattery in the tea poem, Ye Chang’s impression alone would ensure He Zhizhang’s support.

Ye Shu had died in Chang’an; his killer must have had status. Without powerful backing, Ye Chang might also be imperiled, never mind avenging his brother.

Qin Qinshou looked embarrassed, being the one present who knew Ye Chang best, and thus understood his intentions most clearly. Qin had invited He and Zhang to promote folding fans; he dreaded any new complications. After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Master Ye, it is best that you endure for now. Your brother’s death grieves me deeply. If anything should happen to you, I would have no choice but to take my own life in apology.”

“Rest assured, Brother Qin. I will not act rashly. But though I have been adopted into another branch of the family, my brother and I are tied by blood. To leave his murder unavenged is one thing; to not even seek his killer is unfilial.” Ye Chang’s tone was calm, but his gaze was steely. “No matter how exalted the culprit—a prince or a chancellor—I must at least know how my brother died!”

With that, Qin Qinshou could evade no longer. After a pause, he said quietly, “The son-in-law of Princess Xianyi.”

Ye Chang did not know who this was, but He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu did. Their faces grew grave, Zhang Xu’s brows knitting tightly.

Judging from their reactions, Ye Chang realized that Princess Xianyi was no obscure royal, but Emperor Li Longji’s beloved daughter, and her husband must likewise be favored.

“Why would a prince consort trouble my brother, an ordinary citizen?” Ye Chang pressed.

“It was not the prince consort himself, but a steward in his household named Yang Fu,” Qin Qinshou explained. “But Yang Fu has served the prince consort for many years, is adept at reading his master’s wishes, and is considered his confidant. Whether he acted on orders, no one knows.”

“And the circumstances?”

The affair was peculiar. On his day off, Ye Shu went to stroll through the East and West markets, hoping to bring home some souvenirs from Chang’an. In the East Market, he quarreled with Yang Fu, who accused him of stealing from the prince consort’s residence. Pressed for an explanation, Ye Shu denied it, and in the ensuing dispute, Yang Fu beat him to death.

“My brother was content in humble circumstances, never a thief.” Seeing He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu’s faces darken, Ye Chang rose and bowed. “Gentlemen, you have heard what transpired. I beg you not to let it weigh on your minds.”

“What do you intend to do?” He Zhizhang asked after a moment’s thought.

“My brother died unjustly. How can I let him be slandered as a thief in death?” Ye Chang replied. “Since it happened in the busy East Market, there must be many witnesses. I do not seek enmity with the princess or her husband, only to find the truth and clear my brother’s name.”

Everyone smiled wryly.

If Ye Chang could clear his brother’s name, it meant proving that Yang Fu had killed an innocent man. Someone would surely report it, and the prince consort and his wife would be held accountable for poor governance of their household.

“Ye Chang, do you know who Princess Xianyi is?” Zhang Xu asked with a sigh.

“I do not—only that she is a princess.”

“She is the daughter of the late Empress Zhenshun. When she was created princess, His Majesty granted her one thousand households to support her—twice the usual five hundred! In the twenty-sixth year of the Kaiyuan era, His Majesty himself visited her residence, bestowing favor greater than upon any other princess, or even princes!”

Ye Chang remained unmoved, his expression calm, which drew a look of respect from Yan Zhenqing.

“Her husband, Yang Hui, is also of imperial blood. His mother was Princess Changning, daughter of the previous emperor Zhongzong, his father the Duke of Guanguo, and he himself serves as Chief of the Palace Guards.” Zhang Xu continued.

Ye Chang’s face remained impassive. Zhang Xu sighed again, while Yan Zhenqing, unable to contain himself, said, “It is rumored in the city that Yang Hui played a key role in the downfall of the former Crown Prince!”

He spoke in a hushed whisper, but even so, He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu glared at him, reproachful.

Ye Chang’s expression finally changed, not to one of fear, but a faint smile.

“I am but a commoner. Even if not a prince consort, a mere county magistrate would have enough power to force me to submit. But as I said, my brother’s untimely death was a great misfortune. To let him be slandered in death is more than I can bear. Gentlemen, I seek only to right his name. If it takes a day or two, then a day or two; if a year or two, then a year or two; if ten or twenty years, then ten or twenty. Though my brother is gone, his young son survives. For his sake, I must also preserve myself.” Ye Chang continued, “Do not worry, gentlemen; I will not rashly throw away my life.”

His words were formal, not casual, and Yan Zhenqing, himself of steadfast character, saluted him, “Rest assured, Master Ye; with Sir He and Sir Zhang here, you will be safe in Chang’an.”

He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu nodded slightly. As long as Ye Chang did not openly challenge the prince consort, but quietly pursued the truth, they were confident they could protect him.

Ye Chang’s gaze flickered as he expressed his gratitude to the gathering. Whatever he thought in his heart, only he himself would ever know.