Chapter Seventy-Six: The He Shi Jade, Veiled in Dust

Because they had entered the Quarter of Virtue after curfew and had found an inn, Du Shiyi naturally had Wang Wei stay the night. The previous time, after a night of heavy drinking, he had rushed off the next day to the banquet at the Cui residence in Yongfeng Lane, and hadn’t managed to leave the musical score with Wang Wei. Now, as the two sat up late into the night by candlelight, their conversation soon drifted from serious matters to the elegant affairs of wine, poetry, and art. Inspired, Wang Wei called for more wine, then borrowed Du Shiyi’s pipa and played again the tune he had performed at the Duke of Bi’s residence. Aside from a few harmless minor errors, the rest was flawless, and Du Shiyi could not help but be amazed.

He truly was a genius—compared to ordinary men, the difference was like heaven and earth!

Even so, Du Shiyi wrote out the score on the spot as a gift. Then, under Wang Wei’s persistent coaxing, he reluctantly played several other pieces using the Pipa techniques taught by Pei Ning, and in turn, enjoyed two new poems by Wang Wei. Their conversation wandered from the pleasures of poetry and music to the vastness of the land, and at some point, they even argued heatedly over matters such as the Linhu. By the time exhaustion finally overtook them and they fell asleep, it was already late in the night. Du Shiyi slept deeply and only awoke groggily when he felt someone shaking him vigorously.

“Sir, sir.”

He looked up to see a round, dark face and was instantly awake. Recognizing Tian Mo, he rubbed his forehead and noticed Wang Wei sprawled out on the other mat, still sound asleep and snoring gently. Remembering their late-night conversation, the wine they had called for, and their ensuing argument, Du Shiyi could not help but shake his head before propping himself up.

“Why are you here? Where are Lady Thirteen and Zhu Ying?”

“My lady said that since you were about to depart, she wanted to go to the Buddhist temple in the quarter to offer incense and pray for good fortune. She took Zhu Ying and the innkeeper’s wife with her, leaving me behind so that someone would be here when you woke.”

Here, Tian Mo paused. Seeing Du Shiyi nod and begin to rise, he hurried forward to help, bringing out the clean clothes Zhu Ying had prepared earlier. But serving at Du’s side was not something he often did, so he was awkward, not knowing what to do with the leather belt. Only when Du Shiyi laughed and took it from him did Tian Mo smack his own forehead in realization.

“Oh, I nearly forgot. Someone outside is urgently asking for you, sir. It’s Wu Jiu.”

Hearing this, Du Shiyi recalled the task he had given Wu Jiu days before. He quickly finished dressing and told Tian Mo to bring Wu Jiu to the courtyard. Before leaving, he glanced at Wang Wei, still fast asleep and covered with a thick quilt. Realizing he too had been covered, he knew it must have been Lady Thirteen or Zhu Ying who had come in to check on them, for otherwise, after all that wine, they never would have remembered such things. Had it not been for the brazier burning in the room and the warmth of the wine, they would have caught a chill long ago.

When Wu Jiu arrived, there was a new deference in his manner. The news of Lu Hong being appointed and sent back to Mount Song had spread throughout the Eastern Capital, as had Du Shiyi's fame from his day at the Duke of Bi’s residence. If before, Wu Jiu had felt forced into servitude, Du Shiyi’s generosity and lack of arrogance had changed his mind. But nothing had shaped his attitude as much as his experiences in the Eastern Capital; all thoughts of gain and loss had faded away. After saluting, Wu Jiu recounted all he had learned while following the craftsman from Duanxi.

“Duanxi in Guangdong produces fine stone, and the craftsmen there carve them into inkstones worth ten thousand coins apiece in Lingnan. When Minister Song returned to court from his post in Guangdong, this craftsman, Yang Zongwan, hoping to make the name of Duan stone famous, managed to follow him to Chang’an, and then on to the Eastern Capital. He thought that since these inkstones fetched such high prices in the south, they would be even more valuable in the two capitals, where rarity commands a premium. But he found that ceramic and porcelain inkstones are more popular here, and with the current trend for ink pellets and ink snails, people find stone inkstones less convenient. He sought a commendation from Minister Song, but Song, being a man of integrity, refused. Now, Yang Zongwan has little money left, not even enough for the journey home, and is in dire straits.”

Upon hearing this, Du Shiyi fell silent in thought, then said, “Go and bring him to see me.”

Wu Jiu was surprised by the immediate request but, knowing Du Shiyi’s resolute nature, did not question further and left at once. After watching him go, Du Shiyi returned to the room, quietly gathered brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, and began to grind the ink. He unrolled a scroll and, recalling from memory the “Book of Ink” he had once copied, began to write. At first, he wrote slowly, but his hand soon sped up, and in the end, a dozen sheets were filled in one go and spread out to dry on the high table. As he was rubbing his wrist, a voice sounded behind him.

“What is this?”

Du Shiyi had been so absorbed in recalling and copying the text that he had forgotten Wang Wei was in the room, much less noticed when the snoring ceased. Turning, he found Wang Wei looking thoughtfully at the sheets spread out before him.

Smiling, Du Shiyi replied, “This is a method for making ink that I once found in a book at home. I was in the mood today and copied it out, intending to try it myself when I have the time.”

“Oh?” Wang Wei, intrigued, picked up the sheets and read them quickly, line by line, lingering especially over one of the diagrams. Stroking his chin, he said, “With this method, perhaps truly excellent ink could be produced. Perhaps, in addition to Du’s Calligraphy, there will one day be Du’s Ink.”

“Don’t tease me, Brother Wang.” Du Shiyi snatched the papers back with a laugh. “In truth, what matters is not just the ink-making method, but the kiln for firing it, and the shape of the ink as well. Most ink on the market is in the form of pellets or snails, but what I wish to make is, like many tribute inks, a solid rectangular stick. If it turns out as hard as jade, as the book claims, that will suffice. Of course, this is all theory—Brother Wang, do you know any ink craftsmen in the quarter?”

“There are one or two ink-makers I know in the Eastern Capital. But if your ink is truly as hard as a stick of tribute ink, it could only be ground on a stone inkstone. Ceramic or porcelain inkstones would wear out in a few years.”

“Exactly—the stone inkstone!”

Du Shiyi seemed to be saying nothing of consequence, but Wang Wei’s curiosity was thoroughly piqued. He didn’t believe Du Shiyi was acting on a mere whim, so he sat cross-legged before him. Upon learning that Du Shiyi had sent for a craftsman from Duanxi, he frowned in thought for a long moment before asking uncertainly, “If I recall, stone inkstones only came into use since the early days of our dynasty. During Han, Wei, Jin, and Sui, they were rare. Duanxi is far off in Guangdong—how did a craftsman from there come to the Eastern Capital?”

“I have no idea. I only met him once at a shop in the southern market specializing in scholar’s items, so I took note.”

Whether it was that Yang Zongwan lived nearby or that Lady Thirteen and Zhu Ying had lingered at the temple, Wu Jiu soon returned with him before the women came back. Yang Zongwan was dressed much as before, in coarse brown cloth, and entered the room with a tense face, clutching his bundle, eyes wary as he looked at Du Shiyi and Wang Wei. Only when he recognized Du Shiyi as the young gentleman from the scholars’ shop, and that Wu Jiu had not deceived him, did he relax slightly and bow, holding his bundle close.

“Greetings, gentlemen.”

“Please, be seated.” Du Shiyi nodded with a smile. Seeing the man’s unease as he knelt, he asked, “When we last met in the southern market, I was curious, so I asked my servant to find your lodgings and invited you here today. The few Duanxi inkstones I saw that day were extraordinary in quality. I see you’ve brought your bundle?”

“Yes… No, only the very finest piece.” Yang Zongwan nodded, then shook his head quickly when he saw Du Shiyi took no offense. Carefully, he unwrapped his bundle. Wang Wei leaned in, intrigued, and saw a rectangular inkstone of flawless, subtle blue luster—crystal clear, clearly no common item. Aside from the central ink pool, there was a carved ancient pine at one end, and above it, a few clouds. At first glance, it seemed simple, but the longer one looked, the more captivating it became. The pine and clouds followed the natural stone grain, as if formed by nature rather than carved by hand.

“This piece wasn’t among those for sale at the shop, was it?”

“You are correct, sir. This is the finest inkstone I have ever made from Duanxi stone. I carved it with the greatest care and have never shown it to anyone. I thought Duan stone fetched too low a price in the south, but in the north, no one pays it any mind. I’ve only managed to sell one piece so far… I wanted to present this one to Minister Song in hopes of praise, but he is a man of integrity and I could not gain an audience. Nor am I willing to sell it cheaply like any ordinary stone inkstone. Only because you spoke of the Heirloom Seal of the Realm, sir, did I bring it here, hoping it might find an appreciative owner.”

A Duanxi craftsman, after countless stones, was still mired in poverty. He had hoped, by bypassing the merchants, to find his own way in the two capitals, but now saw how naïve he had been.

Hearing this, Wu Jiu, who had just brought him in, could not help but twitch his lips. The words sounded nice, but to his ears, it seemed this was just a prelude to demanding a high price!