Chapter 8: Dazzle the World or Hear Your Name at the Eastern Gate

After the encounter, Cui Fu stood awkwardly, unsure whether to leave or stay. His legs felt weak. Was this really the child his sister said had never left home in ten years? With that kind of bearing, was he truly so unwelcome in the household?

“Second Young Master, what spirit you have! Um… are we still going out?”

“Of course.” Nisheng glanced at him and walked on. Cui Fu hurried after him, his heart unsettled. What sort of little menace was this?

The three soon passed through the main gate of the Wei residence. Cui Fu gradually relaxed. Surely the old man would go back now that they were outside? Once in the capital, with the brat in tow, he could take him wherever he pleased.

As Cui Fu considered how to send Wei An away, Nisheng suddenly stopped and turned, the corner of his mouth lifting. Cui Fu assumed he was excited by his first outing.

“Little nephew, how about your uncle takes you somewhere to become a man?” He glanced at Wei An. “The places where men go don’t care for old fellows.”

“Uncle Wei,” Nisheng said.

Thinking the boy was about to dismiss Wei An, Cui Fu chimed in, “My nephew has spoken, old slave. Why don’t you get lost?”

Wei An did not leave. He stepped forward and seized Cui Fu’s arm. Cui Fu stared in confusion.

“What… what are you doing? Second Young Master, I’m your mother’s half brother—your uncle, at least in name!”

Nisheng approached this uncle “in name” and looked up at him. “Cui Fu, tell me: who is my father?”

“My brother-in-law is… Lord Wei…”

“My father is a principal secretary in the Ministry of Works, an imperial official of the regular sixth rank. What does he care about most?”

“He cares about…” Cui Fu struggled to follow.

Nisheng answered for him. “The Wei family’s reputation, and its standing as a house of integrity. If he learned that a despised concubine’s son from the Cui family had taken his legitimate son somewhere he shouldn’t go, what do you think would happen?”

Remembering what had happened to Wang Rong at the gate, Cui Fu went pale. Nisheng really might tell Wei Mingde.

“Little nephew—no, Second Young Master, you can’t be serious?”

“What do you think?” Nisheng smiled. “If Father hears about it, the worst I’ll get is a spell kneeling in the ancestral hall. But you… Tell me, would my stepmother protect you, or would she be the first to deny any connection and say you acted on your own?”

“She’d deny it.” Cui Fu knew his sister well; cold sweat broke out on his skin.

Nisheng patted his cheek. “That’s right. Think clearly, Cui Fu. You were born to a concubine, and nobody in your own family respects you. If you offend my father and he breaks your legs and throws you out, your sister and your father—no, the entire Cui family—won’t say a word. Do you believe me?”

Cui Fu’s knees went weak. He looked up pleadingly. “S-Second Young Master, let’s talk…”

Having made his point, Nisheng didn’t waste more words. He held out his hand. “Give it here.”

“W-what?”

“The silver my mother gave you, and whatever money you have on you.”

Cui Fu looked ready to cry. “But that…”

“Cui Fu said he was taking me somewhere to become a man. You heard him, didn’t you, Uncle Wei?”

“I did.” Wei An understood at once. “If the master’s name were repeated a few times in a place like that…”

“I’ll give it to you! I’ll give it all! Sister has ruined me! What sort of sheltered child is this?”

Near tears, Cui Fu pulled out the three taels and then the loose silver he carried himself. Altogether it came to more than six taels. He handed it all over.

Nisheng weighed it and tucked it inside his robe. “Second Young Master,” Cui Fu pleaded, “I’ve given you everything. You can’t—”

“Don’t worry. You’re my uncle, after all! What nephew would make trouble for his own uncle? Stay with Wei An. When we get back, tell my stepmother everything went as planned. And keep what happened today to yourself.”

“Yes, yes! Everything went as planned.” Relieved, Cui Fu obediently stayed beside Wei An.

With Cui Fu dealt with, Nisheng allowed himself a rare smile. “Come on.” He turned toward the busy streets. “It’s not often I get out. I want a good look at Great Zhou.”

This was the first time he had truly left the Wei residence since arriving in this world. Ten years. At last he stood in a street full of people coming and going.

Vendors called their wares, drivers shouted pedestrians out of the way of donkey carts, and laughter and conversation mingled around him. Curious, he stopped at a stall selling paintings and calligraphy. One landscape showed distant blue-gray mountains and water veiled in mist. It wasn’t especially well painted, but it had a serene air. He studied it for a long time.

The middle-aged stallholder smiled at the child. “Buying a painting, young master? Two taels.”

Nisheng shook his head and moved on. Two taels. He had a little over six, freshly taken from Cui Fu—enough for paper, brushes and books, enough to get by for a while. But enough to buy a painting? No. Not nearly enough. And a painting wasn’t what he wanted.

Wei An followed with Cui Fu, always two or three steps behind. He recalled Nisheng’s slap at the courtyard gate, his cutting words and the composure with which he had handled Cui Fu. The boy was so much like the old master in his youth. No—he was even tougher.

Unaware of Wei An’s thoughts, Nisheng wandered from place to place, curious both as a child who had not gone out in ten years and as a soul returned to ancient times. The capital was worthy of Great Zhou: commerce thrived, paper money circulated, popular stories flourished and city life was vibrant. Shops lined the stone-paved streets, wine banners fluttering outside. Some people wrote letters for customers at roadside stalls; others performed to crowds of applauding passersby.

A storyteller’s voice came from a teahouse, punctuated by the slap of his table and bursts of approval. Nisheng couldn’t make out the story, only fragments about “a famous scholar of the previous dynasty” and “romantic adventures.”

A crowd had gathered in the street. He edged closer and saw scholars at a literary gathering, reciting poetry and composing verse. A scholar in blue had just finished a line when the people beside him clapped and cried, “Wonderful!” The scholar cupped his hands modestly, though he couldn’t hide his pride.

Nisheng watched from outside the crowd. Literature flourished in Great Zhou; people prized verse and rhapsody, appearance and bearing. No wonder his elder brother cared so much about looks, or the Wei family about its reputation for integrity.

In an age like this, to make a name for himself, he must either dazzle the world with his writing or hear his name proclaimed outside the Eastern Gate and ride in triumph through the streets.