Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

The quietest time of day at Zilanxuan is the latter half of the night.

The guests from the first half of the night had left, the cups and saucers had been cleared away, the footsteps on the stairs had ceased, and even the fire in the kitchen had been extinguished. The entire building was shrouded in darkness, with only a sliver of candlelight shining through the crack in the window of the elegant room at the end of the second-floor corridor—Han Fei had not yet left.

He's been coming frequently these past few days. Sometimes he comes in the afternoon, writes until dark, eats a bowl of noodles left by Zi Nu, and then leaves; sometimes he comes late at night, locks himself in that elegant room, and sits there for four or five hours. Tonight is the latter kind of late-night. When Yang Huisheng got up in the middle of the night, he passed by the corridor and saw a light still shining through the crack in the door. He didn't stop, went down the stairs, and fetched water from the well in the backyard to wash his face. After washing his face, he walked to the top of the stairs to the main hall—not to go up, but just to stand there and hear very faint sounds from above: the sound of paper turning pages, the sound of a pen resting on an inkstone, and the occasional long exhale of Han Fei.

He stood downstairs for a while. Then he heard a noise from the kitchen—Zi Nu. She opened a small door, took a small earthenware pot from the wooden shelf next to the stove, and lifted the lid, releasing a very faint aroma of meat broth. She warmed the pot on the stove for a while, then poured out a bowl and carried it upstairs.

Yang Huisheng didn't follow. He stood in the shadows beside the stairwell, listening to Zi Nu's footsteps as she went up to the second floor and stopped at the end of the corridor. Then he heard the door to the private room being pushed open a crack—there was no knocking, as if the person pushing the door knew the person inside wouldn't mind.

"The soup is on the table."

Han Fei's voice rang out, slightly hoarse from staying up all night: "Why aren't you asleep yet?"

"I woke up," Zi Nu said. "I passed by the kitchen and saw the fire was still warm. I warmed it up a bit."

Han Fei was silent for a moment, as if he knew that "waking up" and "passing by the kitchen" were both lies. But he didn't expose him. He picked up the bowl—the porcelain bowl tapped lightly on the wooden table, followed by the sound of swallowing.

"The saltiness is just right."

"Um."

Zi Nu didn't speak again. Yang Huisheng heard her footsteps as she retreated from the elegant room. The door closed—not tightly, but ajar, leaving a crack. As she went downstairs, she saw Yang Huisheng at the corner of the stairs. She didn't stop, but merely glanced at him as she passed.

"What are you standing there for?"

"Breathable."

"The roof is more transparent."

Zi Nu left. Yang Huisheng stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, then turned and went up to the third floor—the top floor of Zi Lan Xuan, accessible by a narrow staircase. He pushed open the small door on the top floor, stepped onto the roof tiles, and reached the highest point of the roof ridge. The night of Xinzheng unfolded beneath his feet. The torches on the city wall, like a string of beads, wound their way along the contours of the wall, most densely packed in the northwest corner—towards the General's Mansion. The direction of the Royal Palace was darker, with only a few pavilions lit, like nails suspended in the darkness. The whole city was asleep, but Yang Huisheng knew that someone was awake in those dark places. Granny Feng's carved radish, the shoelaces under the old willow tree, the squad leader at the city gate who hadn't yet been appointed, and those people he hadn't seen but who had already prepared the next hand for him.

He sat on the roof ridge, the Heaven-Asking Sword lying across his lap. There was no moon tonight, the clouds were thick, and the wind was mild. He closed his eyes for a moment. He heard very light footsteps coming from the small door behind him—someone was approaching. It wasn't Zi Nu; Zi Nu's footsteps were much steadyer. It wasn't Han Fei; Han Fei wouldn't leave his desk at this hour. It was Yan Ling Ji. She wore an outer robe, her bare feet unsteady on the tiles. She stopped three steps away from him, not sitting, but simply standing behind him, gazing at the same night sky.

How did you know I was here?

"I saw the top-floor window was open from downstairs," Yan Lingji said. "You're the only one in this building who would open the top-floor window."

Yang Huisheng didn't deny it. He turned to the side, making room for her with half a tile. "Sit."

Yan Lingji sat down beside him. Her movements were slow, but more agile than a few days ago—her knees no longer trembled when she bent them, and her hands no longer shook when she braced herself against the roof tiles. After sitting down, she adjusted her outer robe and looked towards the city wall.

"What's hanging on that city wall?"

"Torch."

"Why are there more torches over there than over here?"

"That's the general's residence. It's heavily guarded."

Yan Lingji gazed in the direction of the General's Mansion. Her gaze was calm, devoid of hatred or fear, as if she were looking at a place she had already left. After a while, she said, "The night I left, it was dark. There were no torches."

"The clouds were thick that day."

"Hmm." She nodded, then turned her gaze back to the Heaven-Asking Sword on Yang Huisheng's lap. "You take it with you tonight too?"

"Take it with you."

"Is it awake even when you're not sleeping?"

Yang Huisheng glanced down at the sword. "It doesn't sleep."

Yan Lingji was silent for a moment, then said, "Aren't you going to sleep either?"

Yang Huisheng thought for a moment and said, "Sleep. But sleep lightly."

Yan Lingji didn't reply. She sat beside him, listening to the sound of the night wind sweeping across the tiles. After a while, she stretched out her hand and placed it on the tile, her fingertips less than a palm's width away from his sword sheath. She didn't touch it; she just left her hand there.

"It's not cold," she said.

"What?"

"Your sword. It's not cold. I thought all iron was cold, but it's not."

Yang Huisheng looked at her hands. Those hands had been frozen in ice for ten years, and now her fingertips carried a faint warmth. He stared at them for a moment, then said, "They've been with me for too long."

Yan Lingji withdrew her hand and tucked it back into her outer robe. She stood up, patted the dust off her robe, turned and took two steps toward the small door, then stopped.

"The night in Xinzheng," she said, "is quieter than I expected."

"Once you're feeling a bit better, I'll take you for a walk along the city wall. There's a river there during the day, and willow trees line its banks."

Yan Lingji neither agreed nor disagreed. She went through the small door and down the stairs. Yang Huisheng sat alone on the roof ridge, the Wentian Sword resting on his lap. He gently tapped the scabbard, feeling its barely perceptible "not cold" temperature. Not cold, but not warm either; it just didn't feel like the temperature iron should have.

He sat cross-legged back on the roof ridge and lingered in the night breeze for a while. He thought of Yan Lingji returning home alone, Han Fei under the lamp on the second floor, and Zi Nu in the kitchen. There weren't many people in the entire city, but at this moment, everyone who was awake had gathered in this Zi Lan Xuan.

He looked up at the sky. A sliver of cloud broke through, revealing a few very faint stars—it turned out the clouds weren't that thick; he just hadn't looked up before.