The Yang Family Cataclysm Part 1

Year eighty-five of the Kunlun Era, autumn, the eighth month.

"The True King's iron cavalry rode the palace steps, his armored host bidding farewell across ten thousand miles of passes. The great road bore the imperial mandate's martial splendor; the cloud-dragon's lone carriage answered the will of Heaven. That poem, now—that's about the day the Wrathful King entered the Capital, riding high and proud."

The boy perched on the stool listened, rapt. He had heard the story many times, but a young man with hot blood in his veins will always thirst after those crowning days of clashing steel and warhorses.

The old man telling it wore a kindly face, smiling as he spun the tale out slow and easy. "But though the Wrathful King had taken the Capital, the realm was still far from settled. You know why? Two things kept the Wrathful King uneasy, and when the Wrathful King was uneasy, so was the whole realm. You know which two things?"

"I know!" the boy answered. "Beyond the pass there were still the Sa Cult's hundred thousand barbarian troops, and on the wall itself there was the great general You Changbo, leading seventy thousand of the Great Wall's iron cavalry!"

"That's right." The old man drew a long pull on his pipe; the ember at the mouthpiece flared bright. "Once the Wrathful King took the Capital, he had the dragon throne torn out, raided the houses of the corrupt officials, and shared out the treasure. His army was raised from the heroes of the greenwood, men of the martial world, and they held to honor even among thieves—everyone kept to the rules, and no one troubled the common folk."

"Grandpa's making it up! If they didn't trouble anyone, why couldn't the Wrathful King sit still for even seven days—why'd he ride off to fight at the pass before he was even crowned?" A girl's voice came from the side room. The door was shut, but the house was small and her words carried clear enough. "It's a fairy tale to fool children—just powder and rouge to pretty up the Nine Great Houses!"

"Who asked you?" The boy flushed red with anger. "Grandpa's telling a story!"

"You've heard it a dozen times—you're fifteen! Grandpa, quit filling his head with ghost stories. Teach him a trade. He can't just eat rice and do nothing!"

"You're the one who eats rice and does nothing!"

"All right, now—do you want to hear the story, or do you want to bicker with your sister?" Grandpa rapped his pipe twice against the stool leg, tok, tok, a sign for the boy not to lose the thread. The boy was still smarting, but he swallowed it. "Go on, Grandpa."

"Even with that wholly heartless old dynasty wiped out, two great dangers still festered. For the sake of the common people, in less than seven days the Wrathful King left General Ma Wentao to hold the Capital and rode out himself for the Great Wall, the heroes of the martial world streaming behind him in a great tide. Now, in those days both the Barbarian King and You Changbo had their own schemes. The Barbarian King wanted the Wrathful King and the iron cavalry to bleed each other dry; You Changbo wanted to use the Wrathful King to break the barbarians and then snatch the easy spoils. But the Wrathful King, he saw it this way—"

"The Wrathful King was a hero, upright and true—he'd never stoop to such cheap tricks!" the boy cut in. "When the heroes reached the wall, they struck at You Changbo first."

"That's right. The Wrathful King was no skulking woman; of course he'd fight openly and fair. The heroes and the iron cavalry clashed, and the slain lay strewn across the field. The Barbarian King thought his moment had come and led his troops smashing through the wall, straight into the battle. By then the heroes and the cavalry had fought a full day and night and were spent, and the Barbarian King reckoned the prize was his for the taking. But who'd have guessed—You Changbo threw back his head and roared, 'Better to die a subject than live a slave! Better to lose a dynasty than lose a nation!'—and led the iron cavalry to join hands with the Wrathful King against the barbarians. Still, the barbarian host was mighty. You Changbo charged three times, took five arrows in his body, and was driven back all the same. The barbarians ringed the heroes in, and it seemed this fair land was about to fall into barbarian hands..."

Here Grandpa took a pull on his pipe and went no further. The boy knew that every time the tale reached a crucial turn, Grandpa would draw on his pipe—a deliberate pause, fishing for the boy to ask: "And then? What happened then?"

Grandpa chuckled and went on. "Then the Wrathful King's great general Ma Wentao came charging in, leading the heroes of Huashan, the Beggars' Sect, and the Hengshan Sect. These men had been in the south, fighting the old dynasty's broken armies. When the Wrathful King took the Capital and word spread that the emperor was dead, those broken armies had no one left to serve, and they surrendered in droves—which settled the trouble in the south, and freed those heroes to ride north and stand with the Wrathful King. With this fresh force in hand, General Ma left the Capital in the keeping of Abbess Dingwen, then the head of the Hengshan Sect, and led his men to the rescue.

"The relief came, and there was another grand slaughter, three days and three nights of it. The Wrathful King charged at the very front, cutting clear into the heart of the enemy host, and though he struck the Barbarian King dead, he was surrounded. Arrows fell like rain, stones flew like locusts. Li Shuliang, head of Huashan, braved it all and fought his way into the press—and in the end carried out only the Wrathful King's body. Ahh..."

At this point in the telling, the old man always heaved a long sigh, to mark his grief for the fallen hero.

"After that the barbarians withdrew beyond the wall, You Changbo died of his wounds, and what came next was thirty years of chaos and war. It wasn't until ninety-odd years ago, when the Nine Great Houses held the Kunlun Council, that the world took the shape it has now. These days, heroes follow the rules."

Yang Yan took it up. "I know—you take a master and learn the arts, you join a sect, you get a Hero's Warrant. And once you've got the Warrant, you can settle scores as you please and right wrongs across the land."

Grandpa said, "Bah. All it really gets you is the right to piss wherever you like."

Yang Yan snorted out a laugh.

Grandpa went on, "Anyway, the Kunlun Council laid down the rules of the martial world. The Nine Great Houses all walk by those rules, and the hundred-odd gangs and sects beneath them walk by them too."

That said, the old man found his tobacco gone. He tapped out his pipe and fished a fresh pinch from inside his robe. "Story's done. Time to practice." He spoke around the tobacco as he packed it.

"I'm going to see what good things Ma's cooking tonight!" The boy sprang up and bolted for the kitchen.

The kitchen was small—a stove, a long table, and just enough room left over for one person to turn around. Madam Yang stood at the stove, a faint sheen of sweat at her brow. The pot was throwing off thick white steam; she lifted the lid and a rich aroma rose to meet her. She spooned up a little broth and tested it carefully against her lips, and the corner of her mouth curved despite her—whether pleased with her own cooking or savoring the thought of her family tasting this soup, who could say.

"Maaa—" The boy burst in.

Madam Yang knit her brows, exasperated, though the doting was plain in her eyes all the same. "Yan'er, how many times has your mother told you—stay out of the kitchen. Haven't you heard what Master Meng said—" One hand on her hip, the spoon in the other, she fixed her wide, almond eyes on Yang Yan as he made to step inside.

"I know, I know—'the gentleman keeps clear of the kitchen.'" His black hair hung down his back, half of it gathered up with a simple band. He had inherited his mother's looks and was strikingly handsome, yet with nothing soft about him; a pair of clever, glinting eyes shone bright. Everyone who saw him said his eyes were like stars, uncommonly fine.

Madam Yang gave a helpless look and grabbed a handful of scallions onto the cutting board. "Well, since you know, off with you. Let Grandpa teach you a move or two, or go turn a few pages of a book—either will do." She sliced the scallions briskly, every piece neat and even.

Yang Yan leaned against the wall and pouted. "Grandpa doesn't have a move or two. He just teaches the same one over and over—'Withered Tree Sideways Branch.'"

"And Grandpa's stories are only ever the same few. How is it you never tire of those?"

"Grandpa loves to tell them. Somebody's got to listen, or he'll be lonely." Yang Yan grinned. "In a few years little brother can take over the listening for me."

Madam Yang tipped the cut scallions into a bowl. "Then you go practice 'Withered Tree Sideways Branch' a few more times and keep Grandpa happy. And stay out of the kitchen."

"Maaa—I can't even be bothered with the living's rules. Why would I keep the dead's?" Yang Yan suddenly straightened and walked right in. "You won't let me in, so in I'll come—and I'll chop and cook for you, too." He reached Madam Yang's side and made a grab for the cleaver in her hand.

Madam Yang turned her wrist deftly, slipping clear of his reach in a blink, half-annoyed and half-laughing. "I yield, I yield—I won't tell you to leave. Now stand back there and don't get in the way of my cooking."

Yang Yan flashed a triumphant grin and retreated to the doorway. Madam Yang took up the celery from the table and minced it fine. Watching his mother work, Yang Yan suddenly remembered something. "Ma—I've seen other families call in the neighbors for a baby's first month and first birthday, all noise and celebration. Why is it little brother turned one a few days back, and we didn't ask a single soul?"

Madam Yang started; a little celery spilled from the bowl. "Grandpa doesn't care for crowds," she said. "A moment ago you said you didn't like keeping rules, and now you're fussing over custom and ceremony? Aren't you contradicting yourself?"

Yang Yan had meant to press further, but she'd headed him off. He grumbled, "I just thought it was strange."

Madam Yang lifted the lid again and tasted. "This radish-and-spare-rib stew is your favorite. Go fetch your father home to eat—it won't be any good cold."

The smell alone nearly set Yang Yan drooling. "All right, I'm going now!" he called.

"Change your clothes first! You're soaked through with sweat—mind you don't catch a chill in the wind!" Madam Yang called after his back.

It's time we talked properly with the children's father about those matters, Madam Yang thought, watching the white steam billow up off the pot.

Back in his room, Yang Yan opened the wardrobe. "One, two, three..." He counted his robes off on his fingers. He didn't own many—five in all—but he counted only three.

One was on his back. So where had the other gone?

The missing one happened to be his favorite, the one his mother had had a tailor make to measure for his fifteenth birthday. It was a long robe of bluish-green satin, smooth and supple to the touch, embroidered with delicate sprays of bamboo, and he wouldn't bring himself to wear it except on important days. He remembered wearing it once for his little brother's first birthday a few days ago; he'd seen it still there the day before.

Then it struck him, and he stormed out of the room. That thieving little wretch, he thought. She must've stolen it!

Yang Yan strode to outside his sister's room, and a winding little song drifted to his ear: "For my sweetheart I'll keep a ledger of longing. Old longings, new longings, morning and night the entries pile up. Line by line, word by word, every one a clear account. The old longing's not yet paid off, and now a great new debt of longing's gone on the books."

The singing wasn't unpleasant—only there was no grief or grievance in it at all, even a hint of cheer, so you couldn't tell what she was getting at.

Yang Yan stopped at the door and cursed under his breath. "Squawking like a chicken—hurts my ears." He knocked, fast and furious blows.

The one inside paid him no mind and sang straight on: "Bring out the ledger of longing and we'll reckon it up—how much I've repaid you, and how much more I still owe in longing, I cannot say." She was bending the longing-tune brighter and merrier as she went.

Yang Yan simply lifted his foot and kicked the door open.

A girl of eighteen sat at a table, embroidery needle in hand, calmly stitching a flower, not the least bit startled. She said, "Little brother, why so rough? You really gave me a fright. Frightening me is one thing—but if you frighten little brother, that won't do at all."

Beside Yang Shanshan stood a cradle, the baby inside sleeping deeply, fine and lovely as a thing carved from powder and jade, a smile at the corner of his mouth as if he were lost in a sweet dream.

Yang Yan dropped his voice but not his fury. "Where's my robe?"

Yang Shanshan set down her needlework and looked at him with a smile playing on her lips. "I saw you hardly ever wore it, so I cut it down into new clothes for little brother. Come look—doesn't it suit him?"

"You—!" Yang Yan was too furious to speak. He stepped forward, and there in the cradle was his little brother, dressed in the very robe of bluish-green satin.

"Little brother, you still haven't answered—does it suit our little one or not?" Yang Shanshan smiled, radiant as spring in full bloom.

Yang Yan glared at her, seething. How many times now had this thieving little wretch bullied him—and he never knew what he'd done to deserve it. This time, with no new trick to hand, she'd set her sights on his favorite robe. Utterly hateful!

"Why so quiet? Can't bear to give your robe up for little brother's clothes?"

How he longed to drive a fist into that smiling face. Yang Yan forced down his anger. "I can bear it. Of course I can bear it. Where's the leftover cloth?"

Yang Shanshan hadn't expected that question. She'd meant to fob him off, but on second thought, the sight of the ruined robe might just rile him to bursting. "Hold on," she said. "I'll fetch it." She rose and drifted gracefully toward the cabinet.

Quick as a flash, while she wasn't looking, Yang Yan snatched a handful of something off the table and tucked it up his sleeve. Yang Shanshan soon came back carrying a robe full of holes and gaps and handed it over. "Here, take it. That's all that's left."

Yang Yan yanked the robe from her angrily, shook it open, and saw there wasn't enough scrap left. "Why's this all that's left?"

"Spoiled some, threw it out." Yang Shanshan rolled her eyes as if the question were beneath answering.

Wanting no more words with her, Yang Yan walked out fast, unwilling to linger an instant longer. Watching him fume without daring to speak, Yang Shanshan was quite pleased with herself.

Back in his room, Yang Yan flung the door shut, went to his desk, pulled out the drawer, and with a practiced touch worked his fingers along its underside, drawing a small wooden box from a hidden compartment in the desk. His father had cut that compartment specially while building the desk; the seam matched the grain of the wood so perfectly that, unless you knew, you'd never find it.

His father had told him that everyone has a few private things they'd rather not show, and that's when a hidden compartment comes in handy. He'd promised never to peek at what Yang Yan kept there—it would be a secret between father and son, so Yang Yan could set his mind at ease.

Yang Yan had had no thoughts about it then; he only reasoned that, by the same logic, his father must have a compartment of his own, so he asked, curious, what treasure his father kept hidden.

His father whispered in his ear, "Don't tell your mother—your pa's got a little wine money squirreled away."

Yang Yan couldn't help bursting into laughter. "Ma's so good to you—if you wanted it, how could she not buy it? What do you need to hide money for?"

His father shook his head and told him he'd understand when he grew up and took a wife. Yang Yan shrugged and let it drop.

Yang Yan took the little box from the compartment and drew out a knotted, uneven ball of iron, just big enough to fill his fist; then he fished an embroidery needle from his sleeve, bent it forcibly with his thumb, and worked it into the ball. Look closely and the ball turned out to be made of a great many embroidery needles, snarled densely together, more than one could count.

His father surely never imagined he'd use that compartment to hide his rage at his sister.

Each time Yang Shanshan bullied him, Yang Yan, though furious, would mostly swallow it—on account of their respective places in the family and the urgings of his kin. But he always found a way to steal her embroidery needles and vent his anger.

Yang Yan tossed the iron ball up and caught it, picturing Yang Shanshan on her knees combing the floor for her needles, and his bitterness eased a little. Then he remembered the errand his mother had given him. He put the ball back in the compartment, didn't bother changing his clothes, and headed straight out—all his scuffling with Yang Shanshan had long since dried the sweat off him.

Yang Yan's father, Yang Zhengde, was a carpenter—skilled in his craft, fair in his prices—and whenever anyone in town meant to build a house, they generally called him in to do the woodwork. Now and then, seeing some poor family's roof leaking or furniture falling apart, he'd mend it of his own accord and take no silver for it afterward. The townsfolk all reckoned him a good man, if odd in his ways: he lived outside the town, kept to himself, almost never mixed with others, never called on anyone's home, and never invited anyone to his.

Yang Yan strode to where his father was working—a mansion going up in the eastern part of the city, sixty mu in extent, named Liuya Manor, four courtyards deep, plainly the seat of some wealthy house.

A crowd of workmen stood by the wall hollering back and forth, a great racket of it. Yang Yan knew his father wouldn't be among them, but to find out where he was, he had to ask. He called out a few times, all swallowed up in the din, until he had to bellow at the top of his lungs: "Anyone seen my pa?"

A workman with a cloth wrapped around his head shouted back without turning. "Your pa's still in the courtyard carving beams. Wait a while longer!"

Yang Yan looked toward the manor. He'd never been inside, never seen so grand a house, and curiosity got the better of him. He rounded the corner of the wall, found the main gate ajar, eased it open a crack, and peered in. All he saw was a patch of bare ground, a few trees, and some oddly shaped stones heaped in one corner—the garden, it seemed, was not yet laid out. He was about to go in and find his father when a thin, slight figure suddenly slid across his path.

"Little brother, you can't go in." Yang Yan knew that voice, and his belly burned.

It belonged to a fair, handsome young man with a sword at his waist, by name Qin Jiuxian—a guard this household had hired, and something of a half-foreman besides. Half a year earlier, Yang Yan had turned his ankle practicing the sword, and Yang Shanshan, grudging every step, had brought their father's lunch in his place; she and Qin Jiuxian had hit it off the moment they met. Qin Jiuxian was forever finding excuses to drop by the Yang home, and the family all saw it well enough. Hating his sister, Yang Yan naturally had no liking for Qin Jiuxian either.

"Who's your little brother? I'm here for my pa," Yang Yan said. "Don't get in my way."

Yang Yan made to push past, but Qin Jiuxian blocked him. "The master's orders—no one but the workmen goes in. Stop making trouble, child."

Just a hired guard—what's he so puffed up about? Yang Yan was thinking, when his eye fell on Qin Jiuxian's sash: bluish-green satin, smooth and silken to look at—wasn't that the very cloth of his own robe? Rage flared in him at once and he demanded, "Where'd you get that sash?"

"Your sister gave it to me. Handsome, isn't it?" Qin Jiuxian turned a full circle to show it off—and lost his balance, for Yang Yan had given him a hard shove.

"What are you doing?" Qin Jiuxian was bewildered. Yang Yan lunged, grabbed the sash, and shouted, "That's mine—give it back!" Qin Jiuxian flew into a rage and swore, "You tired of living?"

"That thieving little wretch! Give me back my robe, give it back! You thief—you stole my things!" Yang Yan cursed, refusing to let go.

Qin Jiuxian slapped him across the face. Yang Yan clung to the sash and very nearly tore it loose. Qin Jiuxian seized his wrists and wrenched them outward; the pain brought tears streaming from Yang Yan's eyes. "You don't know what's good for you!" Qin Jiuxian swore, and kicked him sprawling to the ground.

Yang Yan got up, and with the move "Withered Tree Sideways Branch"—fingers for a sword—jabbed at Qin Jiuxian's waist. But he had no real command of it, and Qin Jiuxian's foot sent him toppling again.

Twice thrown now, aching all over, Yang Yan was stubborn to the bone and rose once more. Qin Jiuxian swore, "Keep at it and don't blame me for hurting you!"

"Come on, then!" Yang Yan made to charge again.

"Yan'er." A familiar voice came. Yang Yan looked up and saw his father, Yang Zhengde, carpenter's tools in hand, frowning at the two of them.

Seeing his elder arrive, Qin Jiuxian drew back his hand. Yang Yan seized the moment and rushed him; Qin Jiuxian sidestepped. Carried too far by his own force, Yang Yan caught a foot on the steps and was about to fall when Yang Zhengde, quick-handed, scooped him up.

"What's this, flying into such a temper?" Yang Zhengde asked. Qin Jiuxian spread his hands to show he didn't know. Yang Zhengde looked to Yang Yan; the boy's anger hadn't cooled, and he only glared at Qin Jiuxian, breathing hard.

"Stop your temper now. Home with you." Yang Zhengde took Yang Yan's hand, and the boy didn't dare pull free.

"Will young master Qin come take a simple meal at our humble home?" Yang Zhengde asked. Reading the situation, Qin Jiuxian dared not accept. "No need, Uncle Yang. So your family knows martial arts after all," he said quickly, seeing Yang Yan still glaring, casting about for some topic to smooth over the awkwardness.

"In times like these, you could grab any dog off the street and it'd know a move or half a one. Looks pretty—all empty show, not worth a fart," Yang Zhengde said.

Qin Jiuxian nodded along, then felt something off, as though the words were a roundabout jab at himself. But Yang Zhengde was honest and earnest, and Qin Jiuxian was courting his daughter; surely he'd meant nothing by it. He nodded hastily. "Just so. Mind your step, Uncle Yang."

Yang Zhengde led Yang Yan home, the boy sulking the whole way. Then Yang Zhengde said, "Don't be angry. Once this job's done and I've drawn my wages, your pa will buy you a new robe."

Yang Yan's eyes went wide as he looked at his father.

"The moment I got to work and saw that sash of his, I understood the whole thing. Ahh—I don't know what feud you and Shan'er must've sworn in a past life, that you can't manage even a quarter hour together." Yang Zhengde sighed.

"That thieving little wretch!" Yang Yan said venomously.

"That's your sister." Yang Zhengde put on a stern face to scold him. "In a few years she'll be married off, and by then—who knows—you might even miss her."

Yang Yan gave a cold snort, plainly not believing it.

At supper, Madam Yang saw Yang Yan's bruised and swollen face and asked after it; he only said a mad dog had bitten him, with a glare at Yang Shanshan. Yang Zhengde ladled a bowl of soup for Yang Yan, and Yang Shanshan clamored for one too. Yang Zhengde only sighed, while Grandpa laughed merrily.

Come night, Yang Yan tossed and turned and couldn't sleep, brooding on the afternoon, more and more aggrieved the longer he dwelt on it. That "Withered Tree Sideways Branch" had missed by mere inches—all because he never practiced. Unable to sleep either way, he got up. The room was too cramped to move in, so he softened his steps, went out to the courtyard, found a dry stick, and began to drill the move.

Over and over he worked at it, set on getting it solid, for then Grandpa would teach him the second move. He had little faith in Grandpa's skill, but in his eyes Qin Jiuxian was no more than what his father had said—"pretty to look at, all empty show." Learn two or three moves and he'd have him spitting teeth.

So he drilled for the better part of an hour, when suddenly he heard a thud, like something striking a window. He turned toward the sound—it came from the direction of Yang Shanshan's room. After a moment came another faint noise. Suspicious, he left the courtyard and circled around to the west side.

The moon was bright and clear, bright enough to see by, and he saw that the window of Yang Shanshan's room stood open; in the moonlight two figures walked one behind the other toward the woods. He knew them—it was that wretched Yang Shanshan and Qin Jiuxian.

In the dead of night, what mischief were these two up to now? A thought stirred, and once the pair had entered the woods, he crept after them.

He'd barely stepped into the trees when he heard the low murmurs of two heads bent close together. Yang Yan couldn't make it out, so he dropped down onto all fours and crawled slowly forward.

He heard Yang Shanshan ask softly, "When will you send for me in marriage?"

"Once the mansion's finished, I'll go to your father and ask. Right now he's a workman and I'm a guard—I'm afraid people will talk."

"Mm..." A low sound from Yang Shanshan. Just then the moonlight was blocked by the boughs, his view blurred, and Yang Yan being far off besides, he could only just make out two figures locked together, rubbing close. He caught faint words: "What is there to talk about? You're full of excuses." "As Heaven and Earth are my witness... mm..." "...truly?"

The panting and moaning grew louder and louder, and Yang Yan felt his face burn and his heart race, his head gone hot and muddled, not knowing what was happening to him—until he heard Qin Jiuxian say, "I hold the Hero's Warrant. To violate a daughter of the people, all under Heaven would put me to death... how could I dare..." Only then did he sense something amiss and made to hurry off; but turning too sharply, he made a sound, and heedless now of being seen, he bolted.

Qin Jiuxian started in fright; Yang Shanshan hurriedly straightened her clothes. Seeing a figure dart away through the woods, she gasped, "Could that be Father?" Qin Jiuxian feared it was Yang's father too and didn't dare rashly give chase; he and Yang Shanshan left the woods.

In the moonlight, far off, a boy's figure could be seen running hard away.

......

Early the next morning, Yang Yan was listless and at breakfast didn't dare meet Yang Shanshan's eyes. When Madam Yang asked, he only said his wounds had pained him in the night and he'd slept poorly; finishing his meal, he begged off to catch up on sleep.

He'd just returned to his room, lost in wild thoughts, when Yang Shanshan knocked and came in. Seeing his sister, Yang Yan started. But Yang Shanshan, against all her habit, spoke gently. "Little brother, let's strike a bargain."

Yang Yan knew what she was scheming, and now that he finally had something on her, he shot back at once, "Sneaking off to meet a man in the dead of night—aren't you afraid Pa will break your legs?"

Yang Shanshan gave a snort. "He's about to send for me in marriage. What's there to fear?"

"Then I'll go tell Pa!" Yang Yan had just stood up when Yang Shanshan barred his way. "Don't go stirring up trouble."

I'll stir up all the trouble I please, Yang Yan thought. He'd caught his chance at last, but how to take his revenge he hadn't yet worked out, so he only said, "Who told you to ruin my clothes!"

"It's just a worn-out old robe. I'll make it up to you, all right?" Yang Shanshan said. "Young master Qin's coming by later. I'll take you out, and whatever clothes or trinkets you want, I'll have him buy you the lot. Good enough?"

Yang Yan had been about to snap back, then thought better of it: why not use this to get even? He nodded. "Don't you go back on it!"

"Look how eager you are," Yang Shanshan said. "I said it, so I won't go back on it."

Past noon, Qin Jiuxian did indeed come. Yang Yan watched him crane his neck about outside, and knew he had a guilty conscience; only after Yang Shanshan gave him a sign did he step in. Qin Jiuxian made his greetings and said he meant to take Yang Shanshan into the city; Yang Shanshan said she'd bring Yang Yan along to widen his horizons.

This rather astonished the Yang elders.

"Is the sky about to rain red?" Grandpa peered at the heavens, much troubled.

"If you take your brother off and sell him, even my own daughter won't be forgiven," Yang Zhengde said gravely.

"What's this rough lad even worth?" Yang Shanshan retorted. "I'd have to pay someone to take him off my hands."

Yang Zhengde answered, "My son here is bright and quick. You can't see his worth, but others would fight to dote on him."

"You two, father and daughter, quit your prattling," Madam Yang put in. "Go early, come back early."

The three of them went into the city. The whole way, Yang Shanshan kept up her flirting with Qin Jiuxian while Yang Yan trailed silently behind, his mind full of plans for how to fleece this pair of shameless lovers.

At a nod from Yang Shanshan, the three came to a small cloth shop, and the moment Yang Yan opened his mouth he called out, "Bring out your finest cloth!"

The shopkeeper brought out several satins; Yang Yan picked through them, satisfied with none, and pointing at Qin Jiuxian's sash, asked, "Have you any cloth like this?"

The shopkeeper glanced at it. "That's top-grade silk. I've none in stock. You'd have to go to Baoqing Store two streets over—they've more and better goods there, only the prices aren't cheap."

At the name Baoqing Store, Qin Jiuxian's brow furrowed, and Yang Yan caught it. "Many thanks, shopkeeper. We'll patronize you another day," Yang Yan said, and left.

Yang Shanshan hurried after. "Why'd you stop looking?"

"You think those shabby scraps will fob me off?" Yang Yan said. "We're going to Baoqing Store."

The three reached Baoqing Store, the largest silk house in the city, cloth of every kind set out in dazzling array, along with all manner of accessories—hairpins, headdresses, waist-pendants, jade belt-hooks, the lot.

It was the first time Yang Yan had set foot in so grand a shop, and it opened his eyes; he couldn't keep from touching this and fingering that. Seeing his shabby dress, the manager said quickly, "Young master, don't go handling things. Break something and you'll have to pay for it."

Without so much as a look at him, Yang Yan said, "Manager, you've eyes but can't see Mount Tai. The great hero Qin is right here—haven't you noticed?" Qin Jiuxian, much embarrassed, could only offer the manager a polite smile. Yang Yan went on, "Manager, bring out your finest cloth."

The manager hesitated, then fetched two bolts from the back room; one glance at their texture and luster showed they were first-rate.

"This is Shu brocade, top-grade—three hundred cash the foot." At that price Qin Jiuxian's face changed on the spot. "We don't need cloth as fine as that, surely?" Seeing his expression, Yang Yan was privately delighted.

Yang Shanshan said, "Don't go robbing him blind. Whatever you ruined, that's all you'll be paid back."

"You're the one who said whatever I want, you'd buy. And I like this cloth," Yang Yan said.

Yang Shanshan wasted no more breath on him and, pointing at Qin Jiuxian's sash, asked, "Have you any more cloth like this?" The manager took a look. "We've just sold out of that satin. There won't be more until next month's shipment."

"I can't wait that long." Yang Yan's temper rose. "If you've none of this cloth, you'll make it up to me—or else we go home!" He turned to the manager again. "Have you anything better? Bring it out and let's see."

The manager said, "There's Su brocade with Su embroidery, five hundred cash the foot. It's in the back room."

"Fetch it out and let me see," Yang Yan said.

Qin Jiuxian said, "Little brother, don't go too far!" Yang Yan rolled his eyes at him and paid no heed. Qin Jiuxian said, "Once we're family we're all one, and out of regard for you as my future brother-in-law I let you climb all over me. It's just a worn-out sash—you'd squeeze me for tael after tael of silver over it?"

Yang Yan said, "That was the robe my mother gave me. You couldn't afford to repay it!" Qin Jiuxian made as if to strike him; Yang Yan threw out his chest, not yielding an inch, and with Yang Shanshan standing by, Qin Jiuxian had to swallow his anger.

Seeing the situation past mending, Yang Shanshan hauled Yang Yan outside and scolded, "You don't know what's good for you!" Yang Yan said, "I don't, and what of it? Give me back my clothes!"—and made again to grab Qin Jiuxian's sash.