Breaking Bamboo by Tim Murgatroyd

with such respect. After Chen Song left he paced up and down the small room, thinking himself a splendid fellow indeed.
    Father, who had been supplied a bowl of goldfish, took no notice. At intervals he reached into the bowl and tried to stroke the fish as they circled.
    They boarded the chartered craft without incident and sailed down the rain-choked river. Guang sensed Bayke’s vengeance drawing close and glanced back uneasily. But the other boats were unremarkable, simple merchant vessels like their own.
    By evening the river ahead began to roar and froth; soon they were riding rapids at night, white water churning in the starlight. The actresses screamed and the musicians begged the Immortal Lan Ts’ai-Ho for assistance, while Chen Song feverishly clutched a jade amulet. Only the boatmen seemed unconcerned, intent on steering and poling. Guang caught a glimpse of Lord Yun’s terrified face and sat beside him to steady his nerves. Beyond the rapids lay narrow gorges and darkness. Another three hundred li of hostile lands before they reached the Empire – assuming Bayke did not trap them first.

three
    ‘The people of Fouzhou and Nancheng differ greatly in character.
    The explanation is simple: Fouzhou lies on the North bank of the Han River, while Nancheng occupies the South. Hence, the people of Fouzhou are naturally quiet and level headed, replete with cold yin and prone to sing the note yu in their traditional songs. The people of Nancheng, however, favour the note chih and prefer to laugh in a giddy manner. . .’
    From Remembrances of A Western Terrace at Twilight  
    Nancheng, Central China. Late summer 1266.
    Cao paused to listen before closing the door of her bedchamber. The rhythmic thud of Shih pounding herbs in a mortar vibrated through the bamboo walls of the house. His intensity suggested he would be a while yet, emerging with damp hair and pungent fingers.
    Cao strained her ears for faint noises from Honoured Guest.
    She always referred to the girl in this way, conscious that guests eventually leave. Whenever Cao considered Lu Ying her thoughts drifted to the time before her arrival and then she grew confused, torn between the obligations of courtesy and something darker, harder to name.
    As usual Wang Ting-bo’s former concubine made no sound.
    Sometimes Madam Cao overheard a sigh or shuffle coming from her chamber and, once, sobbing. Otherwise Lu Ying might have been a proud, secretive ghost.
    Satisfied she would not be disturbed, Cao opened a low wooden chest. It contained her most treasured possessions, many dating to the time when she still lived in the capital, Linan, with her father, old Dr Ou-yang. The capital lay more than two thousand li away, across half the Empire, and her girl-hood seemed even further off though she was only thirty years old. Yet it was strange to touch a comb or ribbon worn as a girl and momentarily be that vanished person again. Perhaps the years in between were dreams.
    She took a small bronze mirror from the chest, rubbing it on her sleeve until it shone. Then she examined her reflected face.
    As always, it did not satisfy. Her nose was inelegant, eyes too close together. Cao tried to arrange straying locks of hair, one hand balancing the heavy mirror. At last she gave up and stared deeply at her reflection.
    Her mouth was all right. Shih had compared it to a flower on many occasions during their twelve years of marriage, pointing out that the mouth is associated with the spleen whose cardinal quality is trustworthiness. But she would never care for her nose. It was imperceptibly crooked, not quite aligned to the centre of her face.
    Again, Cao listened to the house. More thudding. No sign the apprentice was stirring. Shih had instructed Chung to study a treatise on the pulse and the lad was probably taking a nap. Her father would have treated such a lazy apprentice harshly.
    She deftly removed her clothes and stood naked, the mirror in her hands. She tilted it this way