Chapter 4: The Censor's Offer

Censor Du Wenyuan arrived in a lacquered sedan chair carried by four men, and he smelled of rose oil before he even set foot on the stone.

He was fifty-two, plump and smooth-faced, with soft white hands and a smile that stayed in place whatever his eyes did.

At dinner in the great hall he praised the plum wine, the roast duck, and the general's tragic loss, in that order.

Shuyi stood behind Lanxin's chair with a sheaf of copied pages, because she had been told to bring them.

Du turned the pages one at a time, holding each to the lamp.

"Remarkable," he said.

"Who is the scribe?"

"A stall copyist from the city," Lanxin said.

"Qin Shuyi."

Du looked up at Shuyi, and his smile widened.

"Miss Qin, you have a talent."

"It looks as if one man's hand lived twice."

"Thank you, my lord," Shuyi said, and her mouth was so dry that the words stuck.

The next morning Lanxin was called to the yard again, and Du found Shuyi alone in the plum garden.

She had gone out for air, with ink drying on her fingers.

He walked up behind her with his hands in his sleeves, humming.

"Lovely tree," he said.

"No flowers, though."

"It's winter, my lord."

"Of course, of course."

He looked at the bare branches a while.

"Miss Qin, I will be direct, because I like you."

"The Ministry of Rites wants these letters in the Hall of Merit."

"The Ministry of War is less certain about a certain commander who left so few traces."

He turned, and his eyes were pale and wet and watchful.

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