River of Stars by Guy Gavriel Kay Read Free Book Online Page B

gentleman that there was another guest arriving, and obviously not who it was.
    But every man with a connection to the literary or the political world knew Lu Chen—and his current fate. He wondered for a moment if the daughter would, then he saw the expression on her face.
    He felt a flicker of envy, like a long tongue from an old fire. She hadn’t looked at him that way. But he was old, really old. Could barely stand from a chair without wincing. Chen wasn’t a young man—his hair under the black felt hat and his narrow, neat beard were both greying—but he didn’t have knees that made walking an ambitious exercise. He was straight-backed, still a handsome man, if thinner-faced than he ought to be, and seeming tired now, if you knew him and looked closely.
    And he was the man who had written “Lines On the Cold Food Festival” and the “Red Cliff” poems, among others.
    Wengao was properly (if judiciously) proud of his own poetry over the years, but he was also a good reader and a sound judge, and he knew whose lines deserved to be remembered. Who deserved the look a young girl offered now.
    â€œYou are drinking tea, my dear friend?” Chen exclaimed, in mock dismay. “I was relying on your spiced wine!”
    â€œIt will be brought for you,” Wengao replied gravely. “My doctors have advised that tea will serve me better at this hour of the day. I sometimes pretend to heed them.” He glanced briefly at his girl. She nodded, and headed back towards the house.
    â€œProbably serve me better too.” Chen laughed. He turned. “I believe this is Court Gentleman Lin Kuo? Your late wife was a distant kinswoman of mine.”
    â€œShe was, honourable sir. You are gracious to recall it and to know me.”
    â€œHardly so!” Chen laughed again. “They were the better family in Szechen. We were the poor-but-earnest scholars in training.”
    Not true about his family, Wengao knew, but typical of Chen. He made the other introduction himself.
    â€œAnd here is Miss Lin Shan, daughter of Master Lin and his late wife. He has brought her to see the peonies.”
    â€œAs well he should,” said Chen. “The splendour of the flowers needs no further adornment, but we cannot have too much of beauty.”
    The father looked amusingly happy. The daughter …
    â€œYou are too kind, Master Lu. It counts as a poet’s lie to suggest I have any beauty to add to Yenling in springtime.”
    Chen’s smile became radiant, his delight manifestly unfeigned. “So you think poets are liars, Miss Lin?”
    â€œI believe we have to be. Life and history must be adapted to the needs of our verses and songs. A poem is not a chronicle like a historian’s.” She looked at Xi Wengao with that last, and allowed herself—for the first time—a shy smile.
    We. Our
.
    Wengao looked at her. He was wishing, again, that he was younger. He could
remember
being younger. His knees ached. So did his back, standing. He moved to sit again, carefully.
    Lu Chen strode to the chair and helped the older man. He made it seem a gesture of respect, courtesy to a mentor, not a response to need. Wengao smiled up at him and gestured for the other two men to sit. There were only three chairs, he hadn’t known the girl was coming.
    The girl was astonishing.
    He asked, because he couldn’t help himself, though it was too quick, “Old friend, how much time do we have with you?”
    Chen didn’t let his smile fade at all. “Ah! That depends on how good the wine proves to be when it arrives.”
    Wengao shook his head. “Tell me.”
    There were no secrets here. The two Lins would know—everyone knew—that Chen had been banished to Lingzhou Isle. It was said that the deputy prime minister, Kai Zhen—a man Wengao despised—was in charge of these matters now, as the prime minister aged.
    Wengao had heard it said there