Chapter 11: Lian and Li
Several days after Flame had left, Jiang was searching idly through treatises on rice-growing in Henan. She didn't want to admit it, but it was proving impossible to find any mention of Magistrate Li confiscating her father's private land holdings. Then again, she was probably looking in the wrong place. Private libraries were not likely to contain legal documents, but they were the only kind of library she had access to.
Master Chen, to whom the books and scrolls of the library belonged, was loitering near the shelves of his collection. When Jiang finally ended her search in despair, he thanked her and ushered her out quickly. Doubtless others were waiting for a viewing, and Jiang's fruitless search had taken a long time. She hoped that the people waiting had not wasted too much time on account of her slowness. The familiar feeling of guilt was beginning to eat at her again.
Jiang had spent the past mornings searching multiple libraries; even summoning the courage to ask a wealthy judiciary for access to his library. That had been pointless as well. The search had turned up only a collection of coloured prints and several slim volumes of pictures that the man had refused to let her see. Suspicious, she had looked when left alone, but discovered only pillow images. Jiang was beginning to wonder if all of Bianjing was slightly depraved.
Yet that was unfair, she instantly thought afterwards. There had only been that jewelled peacock of a swordsman and the judiciary with the inappropriate pictures. Two people. Prefect Li didn't count yet. Contrary to prevalent legal practice, Jiang didn't believe in people being guilty until proven innocent. And so far, she had no proof that the prefect had falsely accused her father. Flame would have been disappointed.
Thinking of her sister intensified the guilty feeling. Jiang had been feeling it a lot lately, ever since she unsuppressed her dormant thoughts of seven years. Now she felt every day as if she had failed her parents, her sister, and even herself. Here she was, confined in Bianjing, neither nun nor sister― since Flame had left for good― and there was no clear way to rectify the situation. Save for dealing directly with Prefect Li. But she had made it clear to her sister that she wouldn't, and Jiang had no intention of reneging on her word.
She began walking to the Imperial library. Jiang would have to petition for permission to enter, which would produce no shortage of difficulties, in comparison to her current short library sweeps, but it would definitely contain more legal documents.
“You're beginning to look like a regular Xi Shi, with that frown.” Xiang appeared behind her. That made three men with no respect for women. Or perhaps she just attracted that type of attention? Jiang banished the thought entirely. She had more self-respect than that. It was most assuredly not her fault. Besides, she was bald.
“I didn't take you for that type of person, swordsman Xiang.” Jiang couldn't keep the edge from her voice. She was feeling somewhat annoyed from the morning's waste of time, and now, unwanted attention. Xiang's face immediately grew serious.
“My apologies. I only thought that the comment would be cheering; your sister might have laughed at the irony of being called so.”
“Because Flame would never let herself become the subject of such a subjugating comment?”
“I meant no insult. But you see the irony.” Xiang smiled slightly. “Now, what's troubling you?”
“I was considering the difficulties of locating documentation.” Jiang was careful not to let any more of her troubling thoughts show. She didn't entirely trust Xiang, with his easy manner and freely given gifts.
“You want to get access to the Imperial library, am I correct?” He continued when Jiang nodded, his arms crossed in thought. “I may be able to aid you in that endeavour, but I'll need time. Librarians are astonishingly hard to wring favours from.”
“How is it, that you would be able to gain access?” If he told her, Jiang could do it herself.
“I'm a First Class Imperial scholar,” he mumbled, not looking at her.
“That's truly impressive,” Jiang said, astonished. What was he doing, wandering with a sword like some nobleman's enforcer, then?
“I haven't anything to show for my troubles, however,” Xiang admitted, now looking up. “One might say that I'm confined in Bianjing due to lack of initiative.” Jiang thought she could detect some current of self-blame in his voice. It took one to know another.
“All crows under Heaven are black.” Jiang responded ironically.
“Quite true.” Xiang grinned. “Now, what would you say to an offer to tour the confines of our prison?”
“What's one to say to the gaoler?” Bad slip of tongue; I should sleep more, Jiang immediately berated herself. It wouldn't do for Xiang to know her suspicions. Fortunately, he didn't appear to have heard, as he was already striding off in clear expectation that she would follow. The behaviour deepened her mistrust.
Li Xiang, with his easily open character, seemed nothing like the son Magistrate Li might raise. Also, his name was comprised of only one character. Jiang could still recall that the younger Li's name had been Xiaowen, so traumatic had the idea of getting married been to her. Her father had tried to explain that the marriage would have been a means of placating his old friend, and that it would be good for everyone in the family, including her. Jiang had not believed the last part. She hadn't even seen the magistrate's son before, and the thought of being ground under some husband's authoritative rule had been abhorrent to her.
She glanced at him again. Xiang walked with long strides. He was tall, as the magistrate had been. His name could be false. But all that didn't tell her anything. Jiang didn't want to prematurely accuse. And her outright defiance for propriety had destroyed the Lian family. It was safer to merely follow along, for the time being. They crossed over the largest marble bridge spanning the Grand Canal. Jiang couldn't resist looking down at the water, as it followed paths both natural and man-made to sweep boats along.
“I'm not killing any fish,” Jiang told Xiang pointedly, when he stopped to see what Jiang had leaned over the railing to view.
“I don't believe you ever would. Though Xi Shi must have done so inadvertently many times―”
“―when the sight of her beautiful face made them stop swimming,” finished Jiang, before he could.
“I'm sorry,” said Xiang contritely.
“You’ve done no wrong to apologize for.” Jiang felt bad. It didn't seem as if he meant her ill, as of yet. She tried to clear her ill-founded suspicions from her mind.
“Nonetheless, we'll desist from the topic. I'm sure you're likely to find more interesting subjects of contemplation in Bianjing.”
Like the exits. Jiang couldn't use them until she resolved her business with the prefect, but their locations would be useful to know. Her eyes searched, following the road that gradually widened as the bridge spread to the opposite side of the canal. Xiang seemed to be heading for the clock tower, located as to make efficient use of the water that had also been diverted to feed the palace gardens.
Jiang decided that the day was lost at any rate, and that it would be best to humour Xiang. At least until he could procure a way into the palace library. That was probably what her sister would have done. Jiang noted with no small interest that she seemed to be behaving more like Flame as the days passed without her.
“Did you want to admire the clock up close?” They had stopped before the celebrated clock tower of Su Song. Measuring approximately 30 bu tall, the wooden structure towered like a pagoda. Jiang could hear the redirected water falling endlessly. It collected in buckets, weighing the giant wheel within into motion. Their bronze parts clattered loudly, adding to the commotion.
“Is it allowed?” Despite the clamour, Jiang did want to glimpse the workings of the behemoth. She doubted, that after reaching Longhua and her ordination, that she would ever find herself at Bianjing again. It was simply too far, and her vocation would not allow for self-indulgences such as examining clockwork, however renowned.
“Astronome
rs come frequently, scholars less, but even so, I’m permitted.” He folded his arms pensively. “You'll be welcome.” Jiang wondered what he could be thinking; though his face was politely smooth, she recognized that he was undergoing some internal turmoil. It took one crow to know another.
“Thank you for taking the trouble, scholar Xiang,” said Jiang, as she walked before him to the exterior staircase. As expected, the wooden stairs were narrow, and upon reaching the interior, branched several times back and forth, before the moving bronze sphere. Jiang found herself wondering if Flame was climbing stairs even now, to the Nanyan temple at Taihe. Her sister would probably be faced with more steps than her, Jiang told herself, as she followed the stairs up to the observatory. The large wheel still creaked noisily below, though it was hidden beneath the floor, and the bronze celestial globe betrayed none of its inner workings.
When the midday hour struck, an infernal din assaulted her ears, as the gong rang brazenly, and both wood and metal creaked loudly with extra movement. Though Jiang couldn't see them, she knew that the clock would be revolving one of the many designated mannequins, bearing the hour, out the door. Bass notes reverberated through the chamber, and when the globe gave a sudden movement, Jiang misstepped.
Stumbling backwards, and avoiding Xiang's outstretched hand of support, Jiang grabbed for a railing, simultaneously landing heavily on her left foot as she did so. Mercifully, she hadn't fallen on Xiang. But she'd done something to him, Jiang noted with alarm, when she turned to see Xiang gripping the railing unsteadily, mouth taut with pain.
“I'm profoundly sorry,” said Jiang, when she realized that he was holding his torn leg, and that she had likely grazed it.
“Think nothing of it.” He attempted a grin, but it came out as a part grimace.
“I believe I'd like to rest a bit,” said Jiang, knowing that if she had asked if he wanted to sit down, he would have refused. She seated herself decisively in front of the celestial globe, before he could insist on moving. Jiang wondered if it was wrong to disregard one's personal pains. She recalled Buddha's remark: 'a wise man, recognizing that the world is but an illusion, does not act as if it is real, so he escapes the suffering.'
Upon her parents' deaths and shortly after arriving at the monastery, Jiang had taken the statement quite literally. Then she'd taken ill. Sister Ma, upon convincing Jiang to explain her refusal to eat, had then explained that this was a metaphorical statement, and that she would know the truth upon enlightenment. To get there, however, would take many years, and in the meantime, Sister Ma had added dryly, one had to treat hunger as real and physical, in order to stay alive until then.
“Do you believe that thoughts can cause physical suffering?” Jiang addressed Xiang directly, in an attempt to draw his attention from the hurt she had caused. It was only when the words left her mouth that she realized she might be just transmuting that pain into another.
“Very much.” Xiang crossed his legs and sat upright. The wheel continued to groan, unseen.
“I'm of like mind,” she replied, thinking of how Flame regularly blamed her lack of sleep and subsequent headaches on nightmares of Li. There was also herself, Jiang suddenly realized, when she reflected on how every time she failed someone, as with this morning's library search, she would feel physically incapable of action. And then she would have to exhaust the feeling in a flurry of forms and ma bu, until one pain had been exchanged for another.
“Is that what's been bothering you this morning?”
“Yes, but I wouldn't want to trouble you with that,” said Jiang uncomfortably. More hidden instruments made their noise, and Jiang stared fixedly at the floor, while a gong rang beneath her. Xiang tugged her sleeve lightly in the midst of the cacophony.
“Now, there is a thought that will cause me some discomfort,” Xiang grinned. Jiang wasn't about to voluntarily divulge her worries to him though, particularly since some of them involved accusing him of deceit. She settled for a polite smile.
“Have you read Su's book on the workings of his clocks?” Jiang felt it prudent to turn the topic to something less troubling for them both.
“I have. Unfortunately, parts pertaining to this specific clock tower's workings appear to be lacking.”
“Perhaps Yi Xing's works could elucidate the escapement parts of the tower. He once co-designed a water-driven celestial globe. I was very much entranced by the descriptions of its workings,” said Jiang, warming eagerly to the topic.
“Ah, then you would not be interested in perusing the library's copy, if you have read it already.” Jiang wondered if this response meant no access for her to the Imperial library. Immediately following that thought was another, scolding her for being suspicious. It must have showed, because Xiang hastily added:
“Please rest assured that I'll still be finding the means to allow your access. I did not mean to insinuate otherwise.”
“Well, only if it's not too much trouble.” She felt slightly embarrassed at how well Xiang seemed attuned to her thoughts. It was possible that they were too alike in their brooding.
“Most assuredly, it will cause me much sorrow not to do so.”
Would it? Jiang thought that she detected some underlying current of self-reproach in the statement. But she said nothing of it, and instead directed her attention to Xiang's leg.
“I hope that it will not cause you as much sorrow as your leg.” Jiang noticed that the wrappings seemed old, caked with dusty road as they were. “I also hope that you've been changing your dressings.”
“That's what my mother would say,” said Xiang, face involuntarily grimacing as he tried to jerk his leg from Jiang's gaze. She looked away, understanding. Jiang wouldn't have wanted strangers noting her weak points either.
The two sat in silence for a few moments, Jiang contemplating again the nature of suffering. She had always tried her best to suppress it, in herself, while Flame had let it show, unrestrained. Which path was correct? Jiang's thoughts returned to the clock tower. Su Song hadn't divulged all the workings of his clock. Perhaps he had been right to keep his secrets; to preserve the seeming perfection of his supreme masterpiece.
“Remembering Flame?” Xiang had been studying her face carefully. Jiang nodded, and he continued. “Is that your rooted thought of suffering?”
“A part of it,” Jiang admitted, looking away. She watched as the bronze globe creaked slowly, and the clattering wheels groaned loudly from repetitive turning below her. The incessant flow of water was beginning to fade from hearing, so constant was its noise.
“And what is the rest?” He seemed genuinely concerned.
“I am bothered by the obligations that family has laid upon me. I'm sure my sister has repeated them to you; about how the enemy of our family must die.” Jiang watched his expression carefully as she spoke. If he was truly Li's son, her words might have some effect.
“I am truly sorry for that.” Xiang did seem perturbed, as he rested the side of his face on a fist, concealing his mouth. “Would it help if I told you that I, too, suffer similar burdens?” He shifted his sword further behind his back, though his gaze never left her.
“I can take them on as well.” Jiang was beginning to recognize the need, as her sister sometimes showed, to unload one's thoughts. When Xiang gave her a questioning look, she added, “Attachment is said, by the enlightened, to be the source of all suffering. Sometimes, attachments are easier to rid oneself of when there is someone else to give them to.”
“I wouldn't like to wish my attachments on you,” Xiang smiled slightly.
“I won't have any. Not after I've become a nun.”
“And why do you want to become a nun?” She should have expected that question. Now she had to answer it, and truthfully as well, since she now knew why.
“I've wanted to for seven years, believing that it would allow me authority over myself, and to some degree, the authority to guide others to good.” Jiang felt regretful. Perhaps if she had recognized it sooner, she would
have been able to offer her sister clearer guidance.
“A noble pursuit.” Xiang shifted his leg. “Me, I would be satisfied with authority over mine own self.”
“You wouldn't like to have power over anyone at all?”
“It's written in the Tao Te Ching, 'To conquer yourself is to be strong. To know when you have enough is to be rich.'”
“Then it would seem that your goals are more lofty than mine.” Jiang had to admire that Xiang was completely eschewing any struggle for power; not even obscuring it in pious idealism, as she did. She was beginning to think that it might be impossible to be a truly altruistic person. If that was true, it would be better to dedicate oneself to achieving nirvana, and then come back as a Buddhist saint to help the needy.
“There's no wrong in wanting to guide others.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” Xiang looked at her decisively. “Can one encounter the needy, pass by, and still hold oneself with honour?”
“Perhaps the one in question is blind.” Jiang vaguely recalled the conversation that she'd had with Qiuyue. It had been nearly a full moon ago.
“How so?” Xiang sounded slightly heated.
“He was blinded by a previous needy,” replied Jiang, wondering why Prefect Li seemed to have reneged on his promise to leave both her and Flame be. It was possible that he considered them to have broken their side of the bargain, by involving themselves with Family Li when Sister Ma did so, but then how would he know?
“That is exactly the cynical response my father would give.”
Was Jiang really like Li? But it didn't matter. Jiang knew the truth now, and she was Li's equal in terms of knowledge. Flame had encountered Xiang; shortly after that, they had been travelling for Bianjing on foot. A mounted messenger would have outpaced them easily, reaching Li early enough to send soldiers. The clock tower began ringing again; another mannequin would be turned unseen through the door by hidden machinations. Jiang was not going to be one of those puppets. She faced Xiang.
“Prefect Li's son.”
The accusation, however, was not spoken by Jiang, but by a man outfitted in lamellar plate, a tight helm masking his face. Xiang sprang up, as quickly as his leg would allow, she noticed, but he was fast, nonetheless. The man bore a guan dao, heavy blade topping a long pole, the end of which was tucked behind his back. It was a ludicrous choice. There was no room in the narrow confines of the chamber to swing such a weapon, so compactly had Sung designed the tower to enclose its clock mechanisms.
“What do you want, sir?” Jiang attempted to divert. If he took Xiang, then she might never resolve the issue with Li. She needed Xiang, for the moment, selfish as it seemed.
“You’re coming with me later,” spoke the helm, not even bothering to turn to her.
“I regret that I’ll have to make a liar of you.” Xiang had drawn his blade. The metal was patterned like water, and when he moved, the blade appeared to ripple.
“That’s not advisable,” said Jiang, moving between the two. “How much were you paid?” Guan dao had been popularly applied as of late, on Jurchen cavalry, but the lamellar was definitely not city-issued. The man could be a bought mercenary.
“I wasn’t paid. This is a favour owed to an elder brother.” The man’s voice sounded near guttural.
“One should never feel that murder is owed,” Jiang responded steadily.
In reply, the blade swung from the floor, upward. The movement was slowly executed, but it stopped only a hand’s breadth from Jiang’s chest. She didn’t flinch, though she could feel her pulse quicken.
“He did say you might be like that,” the man chuckled. He turned the blade over, arm crossing on arm, and spun the weapon in a slow thrum. It was a clear display of intimidation. Xiang had moved silently behind Jiang in the meantime, and now he whispered quietly into her ear.
“Stairs behind panel. Into clock.”
Jiang noticed a tremor take hold of his leg. And the familiar feeling of guilt came over her. The thought that she, a would-be Buddhist nun, was about to let her family’s enemy possibly die in her defense gave her actual physical discomfort. The potential hypocrisy made her head itch. Or possibly it was her growing hair. At any rate, Jiang had already spent seven years in guilt, over having instigated her parents’ death and ignoring the wounds it had caused her sister. Over the recent days, she had smarted over failing to give comfort to a dying man. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life regretting Xiang’s death as well. For all she knew, he might have nothing to do with the plans of his father, Magistrate Li.
Jiang shook her head urgently at the blade.
“Move aside,” the man ordered, when it was clear that the thrumming blade was doing nothing to dissuade Jiang. Ah, a bargaining point, she thought, triumphantly. If he didn’t want her dead, then maybe she could extricate Xiang, along with herself, from the edge of his blade.
“I can’t do that,” Jiang said lightly, anticipating a verbal sparring. “I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat...attached...to Li Xiang.” That was unlike her to say, and she almost felt embarrassed. But it didn’t matter. Jiang was attempting to assuage the tension that she felt, in the form of Xiang’s iron grip on her shoulder. She was afraid that if she didn’t, he would charge their antagonist, to his own detriment.
“You can’t be serious,” growled the man, lowering his blade. “Aren’t you supposed to be a Buddhist nun? I thought you were only attached to books.” More slips of tongue. It seemed that the man was familiar with her habits; if she could discover his allegiance, perhaps Jiang could turn it. She was beginning to enjoy drawing points to use against him.
“However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act upon them?” She faced him steadily. They were high-sounding words, but the point was to wheedle the man’s identity from him.
“I don't have time for whatever nonsense you're quoting.” He was clearly not a monk sent by Sister Ma. Then who was he? Jiang couldn't tell. But it was good that this man wasn’t versed in the texts. Laypersons always seemed to have more regard for clergy, and Jiang was very nearly one.
“I can attest that it doesn’t matter.” Flame, among others, had never been interested in her quotations anyway. “What does matter is that you don’t do any further harm. However much you may have harmed others in the past, another hurt won’t assuage it. Karma accumulates; one can’t simply erase it.”
“One can’t erase dishonour either,” replied the man, serious. “I swore an oath to my brother.” He advanced, spinning his broad blade to increase its speed to when he could bring it down. Jiang felt something lift from her shoulder, and a glance told her that Xiang was moving, sword out. In an instant, Jiang was on the ground, having swept Xiang’s legs out and connected with his wound again for good measure.
“What are you doing?” Both men spoke at once, and both were seething. Jiang ignored the guan dao, keeping her back between the blade and Xiang. The man would be honourable enough not to plant steel in her turned back; besides, he had implied that he wasn’t supposed to harm her.
“We’re leaving,” she told Xiang, and she pushed him firmly onto the narrow stairs, where she could easily impede any further attempts to cut him down. They reached the bottom, and upon leaving the vicinity of the clock tower, Jiang was relieved to no longer hear the oppressive noise of running water. The fresh air was a relief, as she reviewed how she had successfully asserted herself over the situation. She had manipulated the man, to the benefit of Xiang and herself. The knowledge of the ability and her triumph gave her confidence in herself. Were not words as potent as a sharp blade, as Buddha had spoken?
The clattering of the clock receded from her ears as they walked deeper into Bianjing. Replacing it was the roar of the crowd surrounding her. Several black-clad constables came running up. Xiang gave a terse nod towards the water clock.
The birds painted on the clock tower panels seemed to mock her. They inadvertently recall
ed to her the black winged hat of Magistrate Li. Jiang had remembered seeing its ends flap, many years ago, when he had negotiated the marriage contract with her father. Had Li, as she had now, derived as much pleasure as she had, when he manipulated the Lian family to his benefit? Jiang’s victory became bitter. It took one crow to know another. That intended marriage had resulted in death, much as the man Jiang suspected of being Wong's sworn brother might die, for the crime of threatening the prefect’s son.
“Will you have him die for what he did, threatening the prefect's son?” Jiang questioned Xiang. Perhaps it was selfish to ask, as it would shift most of the responsibility for the man's fate to Xiang instead. But it would be more self-indulgent to remain ignorant of whatever punishment befell their assailant, free to imagine that he faced no repercussions.
“Would you, in my place?” Xiang regarded her thoughtfully. “I would hazard a 'no.' You don't seem to bear grudges, nor do you seem to fear the grudges of others.”
“Any other in my position might be reluctant to condemn. He meant me no ill.”
“You're very forgiving,” noted Xiang. “I don't believe he meant to kill me either, but I might have killed him.”
“Whatever for?” Jiang was instantly wary.
“He wanted to kill my father. Anyone who threatens me for being a Li usually only does so because they intend to harm the family head.” He folded his arms pensively.
“Is that your rooted thought of discomfort?” Jiang asked quietly, echoing his previous words. Before Xiang could reply, one of the officers returned bearing the guan dao. Jiang was immensely relieved that the man was not with them.
“He's left, Master Li,” said the man, bowing as he presented the weapon.
“You'll find him,” Xiang ordered. He hefted the blade, palming it between two hands in thought. Jiang wondered how the man had eluded the constables, and if he would return in search of her. If her manipulations of him mirrored those of Li exactly, he or Brother Wong would likely return, as Jiang herself had done to Li. Words were blades, but all blades had two sides. Jiang would have to be careful.
“Knowing who I am, why did you insist on protecting me?” Xiang set the heavy blade on the wall, but Jiang's mouth cottoned all the same. His tone was anything but belligerent, but Jiang couldn't look at him, let alone answer. She needed to say something, though.
“I kicked you,” Jiang muttered, trying to be evasive. Xiang led her further from the vicinity of the clock tower grounds.
“We will talk more freely elsewhere,” he declared, leading her towards a bridge running to the northern reaches of the city. “And then perhaps the two of us needn't suffer poisonous thoughts any longer.”
They passed a tea stand, and since Jiang carried no cash, as befitting a Buddhist nun, Xiang bought them both tea. Sipping the liquid, with the Iron Pagoda just visible in the distance, Jiang began to feel calmer. The familiar sight of a Buddhist tower comforted her, and the gentle ringing of bells, in contrast with the clock tower's resonant gongs, pleased the ear. She glanced at Xiang. The pagoda seemed to please him as much it pleased her.
“Now we'll speak openly,” Xiang said, when they had entered the grounds of the Youguo temple. “Why did you save me? There was no need.” Jiang noticed that Xiang was still walking carefully, as if to avoid scraping skin. And immediately she lost all desire to wield her words in manipulation.
“It would have been wrong to do otherwise, particularly given our disagreements at the time.”
“I think we can say we're in agreement now,” said Xiang, “given that you proved yourself not bitterly blinded to need.”
“Not blinded to my own need, one might say,” Jiang replied, thinking of how she had been motivated, at the time, by thoughts of using Xiang to get into the library. Xiang made a noise of disapproval.
“Lian Jiang, I believe that you're helplessly attached to yourself.” Jiang looked at him in astonishment, but he continued all the same. “Oh, I don't mean in the sense that you're attached to the pleasures of life and making yourself happy. You're attached to your suffering.”
“I don't quite agree.” Jiang bit her lower lip, and stared at the pagoda as she contemplated the meaning behind his words. She had tried, ever since entering Yongtai, to forget the memories of her past. Xiang pulled gently on her sleeve.
“When was the last time you thought freely, without admonishing yourself for it?”
“Just recently, when you were gripping my shoulder and I said that I'd become rather attached. I don't think I should have said―”
“There, you're censoring yourself again,” Xiang interrupted her, laughing.
While Jiang tried to navigate the quandary of not scolding herself, for scolding herself into misery, Xiang's face became serious again.
“I believe now that's part of the reason you came between me and the guan dao. You unconsciously felt that not doing so would bother you further, in the future.”
“How was that going to cause me suffering?” Jiang knew the answer, but she had to ask in spite of herself. Xiang smiled gently.
“You find it impossible to ignore others' hurts.” He continued when Jiang tried to protest. “No? Didn't you encourage me to share my troubles with you?”
“That was courtesy, as when you offered the same to me.” Jiang didn't want to admit it to herself, but perhaps she was kind of drawn to alleviating others' discomforts, if only because she couldn't stand seeing it. Her sister was proof enough of that. How many times had she tried to reason through Flame's diatribes, or encouraged Flame to forget Li? And Xiang, with his leg that she had kicked twice now, and with an internal struggle that she could recognize, had similarly piqued her sympathy.
“That was your nature,” Xiang said, as they stopped before the Iron Pagoda. Up close, the glazed brick and stone revealed its name to be a misnomer. There was not a single visible piece of metal on its grey exterior facade; instead it was covered with intricate carvings of men and beasts, with periodically placed Buddhas. Jiang wondered if they were purposely put just so, to offer structural support.
“Your empathy is an admirable sentiment, though it may bring trouble to you in the future, much more than it has today.” Xiang cut into her thoughts. “Prefect Li would attest to it.” Jiang tensed. Perhaps the younger Li was in agreement with the elder, though if he was, it would have been kinder of him to say so from the beginning. This way hurt more. It seemed in comparison that Jiang was poorly armed, when it came to using words as knives.
“However, you're a Lian,” observed Xiang, “and the prefect is not your father, as he is mine.”
“One obeys his family in all,” Jiang said obliquely, while waiting for Xiang to admit his true intentions. She watched him fold his arms, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, while his expression became steely. Jiang unconsciously readied herself to run.
“Not in cold-blooded murder.” He turned to her, smiling ruefully. “It's not my nature.”
“Surely I wouldn't be the first person you've killed?” Jiang wondered if Li would now try to kill them both, for Xiang's refusal. That would be a waste of life, though she supposed that she might be able to give herself up for Xiang's sake. Perhaps it would mean that her life was worth more, if she could give it up for both her sister and familial enemy.
“Of course not. You wouldn't even be the first person to help me and die later in spite of it.” Xiang sounded somewhat testy. “I have no intention of allowing such a travesty to occur again.” He gripped her hand tightly as if to make a point, and met her gaze steadily. “You are not going to die for my benefit, or my father's.”
Jiang wondered if the happiness showed on her face. She felt as if a burden had been lifted. Despite her guilt and idealism urging her on, Jiang wasn't really sure if she was ready to powerlessly relinquish her life. Xiang led her by the hand towards the pagoda, and Jiang obliged him.
The rest of the evening was rather easily spent, as Jiang allowed herself free rein to indulge in her ad
miration of the pagoda's interior architecture. Xiang examined the bronze Buddha as she looked for the pagoda's supports.
“Yu Hao originally constructed this pagoda in wood,” Jiang told him, as she looked wistfully at the hard brick core. Even with carvings set here and there among the bricks, it all appeared quite dead.
“That one was burnt in a flaming conflagration some seventy-one years before.” Xiang looked thoughtful as he spoke. “Lightning struck it.”
“Quite a pity that Hao's Mu Jing on timber construction did not detail his pagoda.” Jiang would have said more, but she didn't want to bore Xiang. Scholars weren't very interested in treatises on construction.
“Ah, but he gives such precise descriptions of timber roofing,” interjected Xiang, “that it almost makes up for that lack.”
“You've read Mu Jing?” Jiang had thought herself to be the only non-architect who had ever bothered to browse the book.
“When I was younger,” Xiang admitted, “it was my ambition to be the architect of both wooden and brick structures.” He grinned self-depreciatingly. “Though such a profession was too lowly for my father to condone me entering.”
“Well, you might enlighten me nonetheless. My knowledge is rather lacking with regard to brick.” Jiang gestured at the walls.
“You wouldn't be bored?”
“Not at all,” Jiang replied, in earnest. Xiang began to expound on the pagoda's construction: how it was built on silt but sturdily grounded, and how pilgrims often took the name seriously until told otherwise. Jiang felt oddly touched that he would take the time to fill in her lack.
“Shall we ascend in joy as friends, following Du Fu, who delineates the sentiment so well in his poem?” Xiang gestured to the spiral steps.
“Why not?” Jiang walked by his side to the top. The bells rang as rain might fall, petering out lightly, and the pagoda rose high above Bianjing. It offered a clear view of the streets, canals, and surrounding walls. The Grand Canal glittered, a serpentine dragon; Su Song's clock tower rose high near the centre of the metropolis. And Jiang, for once, took nothing but pleasure from the view.