**Living in the Capital as an Official is No Easy Feat**
Even Fan Changhou, the revered chess master bestowed by the Emperor as the foremost player of the dynasty, who rose to prominence as a rising star in the Hanlin Academy, could not help but sigh at the hardships of life in the capital. The Fan family was one of scholarly heritage, but in Xiangzhou, they were far from being considered a wealthy household. When summoned to the capital, Fan Changhou traveled alone, without attendants or servants, carrying only seven or eight hundred taels of silver notes. He had assumed that even if he couldn’t live lavishly in the capital, he wouldn’t be reduced to destitution. Yet, upon truly becoming a capital official, he realized just how severe the expenses could be.
Fan Changhou had not been granted a residence by the Emperor, nor was he a proper jinshi graduate from the imperial examinations. Thus, in the grand city of Tai’an, he had no patron or mentor to rely upon, nor any hometown connections to support him. Yet, as a capital official—especially one holding the prestigious position of a Hanlin scholar—his residence had to match the dignity of his rank. Gritting his teeth, he rented the former residence of an elderly Ministry of Works vice-minister who had returned to his hometown. Though it was a modest place with courtyards and gardens, it cost him a staggering two hundred taels of silver—a price only granted out of respect for his Hanlin status. For any other ordinary official, even four hundred taels would not have secured such a place.
Moreover, the Liyang court did not provide official robes beyond a few ceremonial sets mandated by the Ministry of Rites. The rest had to be procured at personal expense, adding another significant financial burden. Only after serving in the Hanlin Academy for some time did Fan Changhou learn that many of the more rigid and less resourceful senior scholars were so impoverished that they had to borrow official robes year-round. To make matters worse, as a rising star in Tai’an’s political circles, Fan Changhou found himself constantly invited to banquets and social gatherings, as well as obligated to attend colleagues’ weddings and funerals. These expenses drained his solitary savings like flowing water.
Yet, Fan Changhou had one advantage—his scholarly reputation. The daily necessities of brush, ink, paper, and inkstone came with their own hidden costs, but fortunately, he had brought over twenty rare and valuable books from his hometown. Many of his Hanlin colleagues were bibliophiles to the point of borrowing money to purchase books despite their poverty. When Fan Changhou gifted them these treasures, he quickly established his footing in the academy. He also promised many scholar-officials that he would procure locally printed, relatively affordable multi-volume books from his hometown—though in truth, these were simply selections from his family’s private library. The seasoned officials likely saw through this pretense, but neither side spoke of it openly.
Most officials from outside the capital resided in the southeastern part of the city, where the scenery was pleasant. Southern scholars like Fan Changhou entered the capital through this area, and even the most illustrious Liyang dignitaries, though granted residences within the inner city, often maintained secondary estates here to mentor younger generations. Most of Tai’an’s poetry gatherings were also held in this district.
As spring turned to summer, nearing the Grain in Ear season, the saying went: *In spring, contend for days; in summer, contend for hours.* Every year at this time, scholars and literati would gather near the Joyful Pavilion for grand assemblies. Intriguingly, an unknown wealthy family had dedicated over twenty acres of rare northern rice paddies south of the pavilion for public enjoyment. By summer nights, the chorus of frogs filled the air.
This year’s gathering was particularly fascinating. Whether by tacit agreement among the senior ministers—from Chief Councillor Qi Yanglong to the straightforward Elder Tan Tanweng, to the rising stars of the Yonghui era like Zhao Youling and Yin Maochun—none of them attended. Yet, nearly all of Tai’an’s most renowned young talents, from Chen Wang and Yan Jiexi to Jin Lanting, Li Jifu, Gao Tingshu, and Sun Yin, converged at the Joyful Pavilion banquet. Fan Changhou, now a rising name, was naturally among them.
This illustrious gathering had no formal organizer—friends invited friends, and the pavilion soon buzzed with unprecedented liveliness.
After Fan Changhou’s famed chess match before the Emperor and Empress, six individuals remained in the final circle. Among them, Chen Wang and the top scholar Li Jifu conversed warmly, while the “Imperial Uncle” Yan Chiji chatted idly with Song Keli. Fan Changhou, meanwhile, found common ground with the eccentric Sun Yin over chess. Remarkably, their subsequent political careers followed similar trajectories—Li Jifu often visited Chen Wang’s residence, while Yan Chiji and the young prodigy from the Song family collaborated on historical records. Though Fan Changhou and Sun Yin were not yet close friends, they occasionally discussed the state of the realm.
Today, Fan Changhou met Sun Yin before heading to the Joyful Pavilion together. Many officials in Tai’an joked, *High officials ride skinny horses—wealth unseen.* But Sun Yin, having endured political exile, openly rode a towering steed from Beiliang, drawing attention at every court session. Fan Changhou, fortunate enough to hitch a ride, soon regretted it—Sun Yin rode as if charging through desert winds, leaving Fan Changhou sore and disheveled. Sun Yin only grinned at his discomfort.
A modest carriage arrived shortly after, disgorging two men in plain blue robes—Chen Wang, the Left Imperial Advisor, and Li Jifu. Expecting Sun Yin’s usual aloofness, Fan Changhou was surprised when Sun Yin dragged him forward to greet them. Li Jifu, equally startled, couldn’t hide his disbelief, but Chen Wang, ever composed, smiled warmly.
“Brother Sun, Scholar Yuetian,” Chen Wang said, “I must warn you—I still abstain from wine today. Tea will have to suffice. But Jifu here is prepared to drink until he drops, so feel free to challenge him.”
Sun Yin snorted. “Tea or not, we’ll make sure the Imperial Advisor visits the privy half a dozen times.”
Chen Wang laughed helplessly. “Brother Sun, spare your fellow townsman. Aim your arrows at Jifu—or even Scholar Yuetian.”
Fan Changhou smiled. “Imperial Advisor, wielding your rank to redirect trouble is hardly becoming of the court’s dignity.”
Li Jifu watched their banter with quiet envy. Though he often met privately with Chen Wang—both a royal relative and a high-ranking minister—he never truly relaxed. Every word was weighed, every gesture scrutinized. It was no wonder—Chen Wang, the Emperor’s closest advisor, was destined for greater heights.
Rumors whispered that the long-vacant position of Chief Secretary of the Secretariat might soon be filled—by Chen Wang himself. At barely thirty, such an appointment would be unprecedented.
While others like Zhao Youling, Yin Maochun, and Jin Lanting schemed for the title of “Chief Councillor,” Chen Wang alone seemed indifferent, strolling through politics as if through a garden.
Few could have predicted that the Joyful Pavilion gathering of the second year of Xiangfu would leave such a legacy in history.
The calligrapher Dong Juran, praised by Elder Tan Tanweng as *”possessing ghostly skill in his wrist, his characters like a spring breeze,”* penned the immortal *Joyful Pavilion*. The young painter Huang Quan, personally mentored by Qi Yanglong, drunkenly splashed ink across a scroll laid out by Jin Lanting, creating *The Eight Drunken Immortals*—a work immediately hung in the Emperor’s study. And the poem *”A Knight Roams the Capital,”* composed collaboratively by Sun Yin, Jin Lanting, Yan Chiji, Song Keli, Chen Wang, Fan Changhou, and Gao Tingshu, spread overnight through the city.
Of course, such a gathering could not lack beauty. Three renowned courtesans of the capital took the stage—one danced, another sang. Most dazzling was Li Baishi, once ranked on the Rouge List, whose solo dance left the audience breathless. Strangely, after that day, she vanished from Tai’an without a trace, as if she had never existed. Some speculated she had eloped with a nameless swordsman, becoming immortal lovers wandering the rivers and lakes.
*No wind or rain—only fleeting romance.*
The banquet lasted until deep night. Li Jifu, thoroughly drunk, was carried back by Jin Lanting and Gao Tingshu. Sun Yin left late, riding off alone, his horse galloping wildly through the streets, startling the delicate maidens of noble households. Fan Changhou, urged by the crowd, engaged in another chess match with Wu Congxian, their brilliant moves thrilling the spectators. Though Wu lost, his spirit remained unbroken, solidifying his reputation as the second-best player in Liyang after Fan Changhou.
Yan Chiji, Song Keli, and their brawny companion departed, entrusting *Joyful Pavilion*, *The Eight Drunken Immortals*, and *A Knight Roams the Capital* to the young imperial relative, who would deliver them to the palace.
As night deepened, only a dozen or so remained in the pavilion. Chen Wang, famously abstinent, stayed till the end. Fan Changhou and Wu Congxian had finished their game, the latter leaving with friends. Those lingering were the rising stars of Tai’an’s officialdom, eager to ingratiate themselves with Chen Wang. Yet, as refined scholars, their drunken banter remained cultured.
Eventually, someone summoned a female musician who had been performing for coins throughout the gathering. Clutching a pipa, unadorned by makeup, she was no stunning beauty, but in the flickering lantern light, she held a delicate charm. Shy and clearly having earned little that day, she sat on a stool outside the pavilion, stealing a glance at the men seated on cushions within. Most sat on higher steps, but two young men occupied the highest tier. She wondered—what would they look like in official robes?
The one who had hired her, seated lower, gently reminded her, “Miss, it’s time to begin.”
Blushing, she murmured, “Please allow me to tune the strings, young master.”
As she plucked the pipa, Fan Changhou, seated beside Chen Wang, remarked, “This is the Jiangzuo Wu family technique—gentle, unhurried, distinct from the bold northern style. Perfect for soothing after wine.”
Chen Wang nodded. “I only learned in the capital that the pipa is also called the ‘horseback drum’ in my hometown. As a poor scholar, I never traveled the frontier. I’ve always avoided such gatherings to spare myself embarrassment.”
The musician’s clear voice announced the song: *”Daughter’s Red—of southern rivers, southern wine, and southern maidens…”*
Fan Changhou chuckled. “A coincidence! In my hometown, when a daughter is born, a jar of wine is buried, to be opened at her wedding. There’s also ‘Scholar’s Red,’ drunk when a son achieves fame.”
Then he noticed Chen Wang’s distant expression.
*”One part grain fragrance lingers, two parts flowing water chills, three parts apricot blossoms sweet. A jar buried at spring’s thunder, eighteen years later—Daughter’s Red, Daughter’s smile, Daughter’s grace, new wine aged, waiting for red bridal robes…”*
Closing his eyes, Fan Changhou listened—only to sigh softly. The song’s ending was not as joyous as the wine’s name.
The maiden waited years, but her beloved never returned. She died unwed.
By custom, if a daughter died before marriage, the jar was called *”hua diao”*—carved flower—and drunk in mourning.
The song ended with the scholar, now a top graduate, drinking alone at her grave.
When Fan Changhou opened his eyes, Chen Wang’s face showed no trace of emotion.
As the gathering dispersed, Fan Changhou borrowed a horse. Glancing back, he saw Chen Wang speaking briefly to the musician before boarding his carriage.
Fan Changhou felt no curiosity—Chen Wang’s integrity was beyond reproach.
Riding slowly, Fan Changhou reflected.
*Once distant from power, now at its pinnacle.*
*Master, even Sun Yin seeks to serve well. Though I cannot play your grand game of Spring and Autumn, I will strive in my own match.*
In the distance, Chen Wang slumped against the carriage wall.
For years, he had refused wine—even at his wedding to a princess, even when mocked by noble guests. Now, he clutched a small flask.
Yesterday, he had received a secret message: *”Dead. Regret.”*
Regret belonged to Beiliang.
The dead—
Was the maiden who waited from *Daughter’s Red* to *Hua Diao*, only to die waiting.
*South of the south, rain falls in every home during the plum season.*
*North of the north, reeds scatter their down.*
Chen Wang drank, silent.
Tears streamed unchecked.
His first thought had been to blame the young Prince of Beiliang, to blame the land he had long severed ties with.
All these years, his efforts—beyond repaying silver and kindness—had been for her. For her safety in Beiliang. He had feared neither the Emperor’s wrath nor political storms. Only that he might murmur her name in sleep.
Yet in the end, the man who could reshape the empire’s records with a word, who could sway the Emperor to restrain the grain transport—had done nothing.
On the official road, under night’s veil, in the carriage—a man who might become Liyang’s next Chief Councillor wept like a child.
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