Sima Zian paused again, lifted his cup. It was refilled from his other side, another girl, lissome as the first, her dark hair pleasingly disordered, brushing the great man's shoulder.
He smiled at her and Tai saw—for the first time, so near—the poet's notorious tiger-eyes, wide-set.
Dangerous, you might even say. Eyes that would know you, and the world. On the other hand...
The poet hiccupped, and then giggled. "Oh, dear," he said. "I have friends in Xinan... I do still have friends in Xinan... who would be disappointed in me, that this small sampling of a good wine should cause me to lose the thread of my own verse. Will someone...?"
He looked around, optimistically.
Tai heard himself, before he was aware that he was speaking:
The crowd by the raised platform parted, turning to look at him. Tai moved forward, aware that he wasn't entirely sober himself, light-headed with what he was doing, overwhelmed to be among this many people after so long alone, all these women. His gaze was met—and held—by tiger-eyes.
He stopped. Had reached the last verse.
Sima Zian smiled. No danger in it at all, only good-natured, inebriated delight.
"That was it!" he exclaimed. "Thank you, friend. And have you left the ending for me?"
Tai bowed, hand in fist; he didn't trust himself to speak. He had loved the words of this man, and the legend of him, since he'd left childhood behind.
When he straightened, a tall girl in crimson silk attached herself to his side, hip against his, a long arm lightly around his waist, head tilted to rest on his shoulder. He breathed the scent of her, felt a surge of desire, over and above and through all else.
Sima Zian, the Banished Immortal, who had never held a single post in the imperial civil service, never even sat an examination, who had been banished from Xinan (as well as heaven!) three times that Tai knew about, who was reliably reported to have not been entirely sober in decades, who could nonetheless extemporize a poem, write it on the spot with immaculate brushwork, and break your heart, said softly, into the hush:
There was a further silence. Surely there would always be, Tai thought, a silence after this, everywhere. The hand around his waist lingered. There was musk in her perfume, and ambergris. Both were expensive. This really was, he thought, the best house in Chenyao, if the girls wore such scents.
"Thank you, master," he said.
Someone had to say it, he thought. Sima Zian didn't turn his head at first. He lifted a hand, holding the empty cup. The first girl moved beside him and refilled it. The poet drank it off, held it up again. The second woman, refusing to yield her rights, came forward this time.
The poet's eyes, pale and brilliant in the lamplight, finally turned to look at Tai.
"Join me," Sima Zian said, "if your mourning time is over. It must be, since you are among us. We can drink together."
Tai opened his mouth, realized he had no idea what to say.
The girl beside him pressed her head briefly against his shoulder, a reminder of her presence, a promise, and withdrew. Tai stepped up to the platform, bowed, and slipped off his own sheathed sword, laying it near the poet's. He sat opposite the other man, cross-legged. A cup was handed to him, wine was poured. He lifted the cup in salute. He decided to be careful how much he drank.
He had no idea how Sima Zian knew who he was.
The poet, seen close, was a bigger man than Tai had imagined. His long hair was mostly grey, tied at the back with a nondescript blue strip of cloth, no hairpins. His robe was stained. His face was remarkably unlined, round, flushed, and benign. The bright eyes were unsettling, however. His hands were steady, large, the fingers long.
He said, "I knew of your father, of course. His death was a loss. It has always seemed to me that the best military leaders are gentle in their souls, aware of what war means. I thought this might be true of Shen Gao."
He lifted his cup and drank. Tai did the same, cautiously.
Tai cleared his throat. It was necessary to speak, or be thought simple-minded. The two girls had withdrawn down the two steps, leaving them a space of privacy on this platform. The evening activities of the chamber had resumed. He heard pipa music begin, then a flute, and laughter; saw men and women retiring through curtained doorways.
Tai wished he were sober. He said, "Our family is honoured, of course, that you even know who he was. Or... who I am."
The pale eyes were briefly sharp, then amusement returned. "You have been long away," said the poet. "I know your brother, as well. Shen Liu is too close to the first minister not to be known... and judged."
Tai said, "Judged, but not admired?"
Sima Zian grinned again. A smile seemed to be his natural expression. "Not by all. The same is true, of course, of the first minister himself. We live in challenging times. Assessments are going to be made."
Tai looked quickly around. Only the two girls with their wine were in possible range of hearing this.
The poet laughed. "You are concerned for me? What would Wen Zhou do? Exile me from Xinan again? He would like to, I suspect. So would others. It was decided by friends who care for me that this might be a good summer to absent myself from the capital. That's why I'm drinking in a pleasure house in the west. In part."
A deliberate pause, an obvious invitation. Taking it, Tai murmured, "In part?"
That laughter again, uninhibited, infectious—though Tai was not in a state to share amusement. "The prefect was kind enough to tell me of your arrival, over dinner this evening. He mentioned that you'd inquired about where the best courtesan house in town might be. A sensible query. I wanted to meet you."
"I am... I am humbled..." Tai heard himself stammering.
"No," said Sima Zian. "Not after that lake beyond borders. What you did there." His wide gaze was suddenly direct.
Tai nodded, a single awkward bob of the head. He felt flushed. Wine and the room's warmth, the intensity of the eyes holding his.
The poet murmured:
The lines were well known. Zian had written them himself for a friend, years ago. Another poet, older, now gone.
Tai lowered his eyes. "You do me too much honour."
Sima Zian shook his head. "No," he said again. "I do not." Then, quietly, "Do you see ghosts here tonight?"
It was a real question. Tai was startled, looked at the other man and then away. Zian held up his cup and one of the women came forward. She gestured at Tai's and he shook his head. The poet made a face.