Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

The Chengxi vegetable market did not close despite the rain.

The roof was made of bamboo strips and oilcloth, enough to keep out light rain but not the wind. The wind blew in from both sides, sending the hanging water droplets flying at an angle. When Yang Huisheng entered the shed, the blue bricks under his feet were wet and slightly slippery. He slowed his pace, taking a leisurely stroll around the fish stall area. There were three fish vendors in total. Two were run by young people, one in his early twenties and the other in his thirties, both wearing aprons and scaling customers. The third vendor was an elderly man with gray hair, sitting on a low stool behind his stall, with three wooden basins in front of him—one for crucian carp, one for grass carp, and one for eels. The water in the crucian carp basin was still clear, the water in the grass carp basin was already murky, and the water in the eel basin was covered with a damp cloth.

Yang Huisheng stopped in front of the old man and looked down at the crucian carp. "How much?"

The old man looked up. His face was roughened by the wind, his nose was red, and his eyes, though small, were bright. He glanced at Yang Huisheng, his gaze sweeping over the damp patch on his left shoulder, the old umbrella in his hand, and the empty space at his waist (he hadn't taken the Heavenly Sword; it was left at Zilan Pavilion). Then he looked down at the fish and said, "Crucian carp are sold by the piece, three coins each, larger ones five coins."

Yang Huisheng squatted down and pointed to the one in the middle of the basin. "How big is this one?"

"Four ounces for the main course, four coins."

"OK."

The old man reached into the basin to scoop up fish. His movements were swift and precise—he caught the fish with a single, precise scoop, and once it bounced in his palm, he pinned it down. He scaled it, gutted it, removed its internal organs, and rinsed it—all in less than ten breaths. He wrapped the fish in a lotus leaf and handed it to Yang Huisheng.

Yang Huisheng took it but didn't leave immediately. He stood in front of the stall, seemingly chatting casually, "Business must be tough on rainy days, right?"

The old man wiped his hands on his apron. "It's the same no matter if it rains. The fish are good, but people are afraid of getting their feet wet, so they don't go out."

"Do you set up your stall here every day?"

"Most of my life has passed."

Is anyone else at home?

The old man paused, as if thinking, "Is this guy just bored?" But he answered anyway, "I have a brother. He works at the city gate, standing guard at night and sleeping during the day. We don't live together."

Yang Huisheng held the fish in his hand, casually replying, "Working at the city gate is hard work; the dew is heavy at night."

"Who says otherwise?" The old man picked up the lid of the wooden basin, replaced the damp cloth in the fish tank, and casually scooped out a floating scallion leaf. "He said that at night, moisture seeps up from outside the city, making the base of the walls damp, and his knees start to hurt after standing for a while. He can't sleep, and he can't sleep during the day either."

Yang Huisheng stopped himself from saying that. "The humidity is high at night"—the city gate sergeant stood on the city wall at night, and since there was no river outside the city gate, there wouldn't be any humidity rising from outside. The old man said "humidity" meant there was water accumulating at the base of the city wall—the city gate's drainage ditch might be blocked. But more importantly, "he couldn't sleep at night."

Yang Huisheng switched the fish to his left hand and took out four copper coins from his pocket, placing them on the stall. "Thanks, the fish is good."

The old man took the money, nodded, and didn't try to keep him any longer. Yang Huisheng turned and left. As he walked out of the market stall, he reopened his oil-paper umbrella, the rain pattering softly on its surface. He carried the fish back, his pace as unhurried as when he arrived. But he had already pieced together the information he'd just gathered: the city gate sergeant's informant was still there, at least tonight he was still standing on the city wall. But his insomnia indicated increasing pressure—perhaps Ji Wuye's control was tightening, or perhaps he had recently noticed something.

Yang Huisheng paused briefly as he passed an alleyway, hanging the fish on a hook on the wall—he didn't take it with him. He didn't need to actually carry the fish back to Zilan Pavilion. He just needed someone to see him go to the market, buy the fish, and return empty-handed. A person who buys fish and then loses it won't be remembered. When he returned to Zilan Pavilion, it was still raining. He entered through the back door, leaning his oil-paper umbrella against the wall outside the kitchen; raindrops dripped from the tip of the umbrella, forming a small puddle. As he entered the main hall, he saw Zi Nu polishing a copper kettle behind the counter. She glanced at him, her gaze sweeping over his empty hands, but asked nothing.

Yang Huisheng went upstairs. He paused half a step at the corner of the stairs, turned slightly, and said to those below, "He's still here."

Zi Nu's hands didn't stop wiping the copper kettle. But she nodded slightly—a gesture only Yang Huisheng could see. Yang Huisheng continued upstairs. He pushed open the door; the rain was still falling outside. He sat down, took out the Heavenly Secrets bamboo scroll from his robes, unfolded it, and laid it flat on the table, but didn't look at it. He was just thinking about when the phrase "he couldn't sleep at night" would become "he didn't want to stand anymore"—if Gai Nie hadn't arrived by then, he needed to make sure he had other cards in his hand.

Night rain tapped against the window. Yang Huisheng sat there, without a lamp, pondering in the darkness the timing of Ji Wuye's horse's hooves landing, and the card he was still missing from his hand.