Chapter Nine: Cannot Remain Long (Part Two)

Pingkang Ward lay to the west of the Eastern Market, not far from the former Imperial City and Taiji Palace. The streets of Chang’an ran straight and true, the wards and markets formed perfect squares. Constables and agents of the capital moved to and fro, keeping the peace. Yet the crowds were overwhelming; even as night approached, the main streets bustled with throngs of people—men and women, locals mixed with foreigners: Persians with aquiline features, dark-skinned Kunlun slaves, wild and untamed Turks and Khitans, Japanese aping Tang customs, and shy, hesitant Silla envoys—the variety was endless. If not for the flowing robes and ancient attire, Quan Ce might almost have thought himself in the capital of a later age.

Wu Youji, a frequent guest at the pleasure quarters, knew the way well. Instead of braving the crowds of the Eastern Market, he led them on a longer, quieter route. Quan Ce understood—just a few streets away, the cries and haggling of the market vendors thundered in every direction; to enter now was to risk being trapped until the market closed for the night. Noticing Quan Ce's interest in the bustling market, Wu Youji smiled and said, “The Eastern Market boasts over seventy thousand merchants, and the Western Market even more. Together, they make Chang’an a city of unmatched abundance. The taxes collected here lead all of Guanzhong, and Guanzhong leads the realm—these two markets are the pillars of our prosperity.”

“Uncle speaks truly. The Eastern Capital cannot compare to Chang’an,” Quan Ce lowered his eyes, following the conversation. “Her Majesty favors Luoyang, building the Hall of Enlightenment there. If one were to establish warehouses in both cities, and set up a transport company dedicated to trade between them, the profits would surely be great.”

Wu Youji’s eyes widened. He reined in his horse sharply, staring at Quan Ce with such intensity that he felt ill at ease. Wang Hui, who had been silent at the rear, immediately rode up to stand by Quan Ce’s side.

“Brilliant, Dalang! A truly excellent idea,” Wu Youji exclaimed, his delight unconcealed. “This must be done, this must be done! If it succeeds, I shall grant you a twenty percent share in the business.”

“I was merely idly speculating. If the idea is of use to you, Uncle, that is reward enough—such a share, I dare not accept,” Quan Ce replied, feigning humility and waving his hands, then turned to Wang Hui. “All the silver Her Majesty bestowed upon me has been handed to my mother. Cousin, do you have any funds?”

“Dalang, don’t jest! The Mid-Commander’s fortune is vast; how could my meager purse compare? When he earns a fortune, I’ll simply buy him a cup of wine to celebrate,” Wang Hui scolded lightly, quickly clarifying the matter with Wu Youji.

“Hahaha! Well, tonight I am your host—eat and drink your fill,” Wu Youji laughed heartily, unconcerned.

Amidst such banter, Pingkang Ward came into view.

Truth be told, business here rivaled that of the great markets, yet the streets were not crowded. There were two reasons: first, aimless loiterers were few—no one wished to cause trouble; second, most patrons were regulars, entering the ward and heading straight for their destination without lingering outside.

Their group was no exception. Wu Youji led them directly into a three-story building called “Dispersing Sorrow for Guests,” located in the northern quarter.

The madam greeted them with a beaming smile and showed them to a large private room on the third floor. The space was broad, the sliding door opening to reveal low tables and cushioned seats; each table had more than ten feet of space around it, and the tables hugged the walls, leaving the center open. Quan Ce felt a faint warmth in his belly—such scenes, so often seen in certain videos of later ages, were, it seemed, but pale imitations of the Tang.

Attendants flowed like water. In moments, the table was laden with food and wine. A serving girl brought forth a round lacquered tray filled with dozens of bamboo lots. Wu Youji swept up two with a flourish. “As your host, I choose the Whirlwind Dance and the Soaring Phoenix Dance—one vigorous, one gentle. The rest of you, choose as you please.”

The tray was passed around. Liu Tong chose a tune called “Willow Branches,” Lai Chong picked “Rain on the Bells.”

“Friends, our gathering is fated—let us drink a full cup!” Wu Youji raised a gold-rimmed jade bowl. Each cup held perhaps two taels of wine, which they drank in one draught, toasting one another. Quan Ce frowned at first, but tasting the low-proof rice wine, he smiled—he could handle it.

As their acquaintance was shallow, Wu Youji turned the conversation to Quan Ce. “Dalang, I heard you and Shangguan the court poet exchanged tokens of affection—won’t you share it with us, for our appreciation?”

Quan Ce gave a wry smile. “Uncle, you misunderstand. There was nothing of the sort—I merely wrote four words: ‘You are a beauty.’”

“A beauty? Shangguan is famed for her looks and talent, truly worthy of such praise. But your words seem unfinished—are you hiding something?” Liu Tong interjected. Wu Youji and the others were intrigued.

Even these martial men could sense the double meaning; Shangguan Wan’er had clearly twisted his words on purpose. So be it—he would let her have her way. “No, General Liu, you mistake me. I meant only the literal sense—a compliment that she is truly a good person, nothing more.”

At this, laughter erupted around the table.

“Dalang, you spoil the mood! Far too abrupt,” Wu Youji doubled over, laughing.

Soon after, the performances began. The drums pounded—twelve beautiful women entered, clad in tight-sleeved tops and snug trousers. They formed a line, arms outstretched, swaying their bodies with sinuous grace. Suddenly, they leapt into the air, spinning several times, landing on one leg, crouching, one leg extended, spinning again. After dozens of circles, they split their legs, supporting themselves with one hand as they spun on the ground, displaying remarkable strength and agility.

The drums continued. The dancers split into pairs, drawing guests into their dance, circling and swaying, enticing and wild.

Quan Ce felt uneasy and stole a glance around. Wu Youji and the others were thoroughly immersed, dancing with the women, joining in the revelry—even Wang Hui was not immune. Quan Ce decided he might as well follow their lead.

When the drums ceased, the performance ended. Two dancers beside him rose languidly, their movements soft and inviting.

The others eyed him with playful teasing. Lai Chong drew close, giving a thumbs up. “Brother Quan, impressive! Do you have some secret technique? You must teach me sometime.”

Quan Ce ignored him.

The Soaring Phoenix Dance was performed by only four women, dressed in light pink, their movements like clouds chasing the moon, graceful as cranes. As with the previous dance, the four circled the floor before mingling with the guests.

Wu Youji left his seat to dance, his steps elegant. Liu Tong was no less spirited, leaping into the dance—his style better suited to the Whirlwind Dance.

Quan Ce felt stifled. Perhaps all true golden ages share this exuberance, yet his own reserved nature fit neither this time nor the world to come.

Fortunately, the dances soon ended. The chosen tunes, “Willow Branches” and “Rain on the Bells,” were instrumental—he could simply listen, without further embarrassment.

But his relief was premature. Before long, as the wine took effect, Wu Youji summoned the madam to bring forth dozens of courtesans, bidding them choose as they wished. He paid a handsome fee, instructing the courtesans to make the final choice, and no one could leave unsatisfied—by age, the youngest first, which happened to be Quan Ce.

The company erupted in laughter. Wang Hui tried to excuse himself, but Wu Youji would not have it.

Quan Ce, helpless, shook his head and rose. “Are there any chaste performers?”

The madam hesitated. There were, of course, but as they sold only their art, not their company, they would not serve in private. Quan Ce was unmoved. “Uncle only said to choose a lady and enjoy the evening. I choose a chaste performer—not for her company, but to ensure she enjoys herself.”

Wu Youji roared with laughter. “Marvelous! Let us see how this turns out.”

Shortly, the madam brought forth a songstress named Fuqu, not a regular at Dispersing Sorrow, but a guest performer—currently the star of Pingkang Ward, adored by crowds. She bore herself with regal grace, attended by maids and pages, no different from a noble lady.

Quan Ce approached. “Lady Fuqu, I am skilled in painting. May I create a portrait for you, lifelike and true—would that please you?”

“I am a singer, sir. Your painting would delight me, but that is not my wish. If you could compose a new piece for me to sing before the nobles, bringing joy to all, then I would be truly pleased.” Fuqu replied with composed grace, her clear voice like pearls upon a jade plate, gently refusing him and winning the room’s applause.

Quan Ce was deeply impressed. Clapping, he laughed. “If that is your wish, I shall do my best.”

Fuqu, not putting on airs, personally brought ink and paper, bowing her head to grind the ink, showing no impatience.

“I was just inspired by the tune ‘Willow Branches.’ Allow me to improvise a verse,” Quan Ce said modestly, though his brush moved with confident ease, four lines flowing swiftly onto the page.

“By lamplight in the well’s depths, I wait for thee;
Beloved, travel far, but break not our vow.
A dice of crystal hides a red bean within,
Longing to the bone—do you know it or not?”

Fuqu gazed at the words for a long time, especially the last two lines, murmuring them softly. Moved to tears, she suddenly began to sing, her pure voice filling the hall, suffused with longing and sorrow, stifling the restlessness of all present.

When her song ended, the applause was thunderous.

“Sir, I am satisfied. But if you are not, I would gladly offer myself to you,” Fuqu said, bowing deeply.

Quan Ce, expressionless, hurriedly waved her off, helping her to her feet. “Lady Fuqu, you are mistaken. We are both well pleased—why dwell on such things?”

He turned to Wu Youji and bowed. “With Lady Fuqu’s approval, Uncle, I shall take my leave.”

“So be it—let me see you off,” Wu Youji said, not pressing the matter. He and Wang Hui accompanied Quan Ce downstairs.

Below, besides Shazha Fu, Quan Zhong and Quan Li had arrived with a carriage, clearly intending to take him home at dawn.

Wu Youji continued to jest. “The goddesses of Pingkang are unfortunate tonight, unable to serve you, Dalang. You are a remarkable man, and I hope to see more of you. I’ll set about the two-capitals transport business at once. It’s a pity Luoyang is not as prosperous as Chang’an; otherwise, the profits would be even greater.”

Quan Ce, swaying in the cool night air, was flushed with wine, speaking boldly. “Indeed, indeed! If only the realm’s richest merchants could be drawn to the Eastern Capital, trade between the two cities would make your family’s fortune even greater.”

Wu Youji’s eyes sparkled as he patted Quan Ce on the shoulder, smiling meaningfully. “That may yet come to pass. I’ll go back and see the goddesses—perhaps my wishes will come true.”

He didn’t forget to remind Wang Hui, “Don’t you dare slip away, Dalang of the Wang family!” With that, he sauntered upstairs.

Wang Hui agreed with a sigh, helping Quan Ce into the carriage. He sat with him for a while, muttering, “The whole evening was disrupted by you. General Liu wanted to have a private word with you—now it’ll have to wait. You’ve changed, Dalang, even composing poetry now. Still, you remain as chaste as ever. But from your words, I think you’re fond of that Shangguan Wan’er. Take my advice: palace women are as venomous as vipers—best forget her soon.”

Quan Ce, still dazed, replied, “I’ll do as you say, cousin.”

Wang Hui jumped from the carriage, instructing the Quan family servants.

As the carriage rattled away, Quan Ce’s eyes cleared, cold sweat breaking out across his body. He owed much to Wu Youji tonight.

The Li family’s powerful nobles were not content with recruiting Quan Yi—they were coming for him as well.

Chang’an, city of intrigue and peril, was no place to linger.