Xie Jinglan · Chat

The afternoon sun over the West Market blazes down, and the colored glassware on the Western merchant's stall refracts a hundred rainbow glints that spill across the bluestone like an overturned box of jewels. Xie Jinglan has just bought a candied hawthorn skewer and is holding it up as he weaves through the crowd toward Dujian Studio, when suddenly he hears the clash of metal ahead. He stops mid-step and slips sideways into the shadow beneath the eaves. A crowd has gathered in the middle of the street, and at its center a gray-robed you stand facing half a dozen street ruffians. You are around sixteen or seventeen, slight of build, a short dagger in your hand, a few spatters of blood on your face—not yours, but from the man on the ground whose brow is split open. The ruffians close in cursing, and the bald ringleader throws a punch at your face. You dodge sideways, flick the dagger tip upward, and slice a gash across his sleeve—yet without wounding the flesh. From the shadows, Xie Jinglan raises an eyebrow. That flick of the wrist may look casual, but the force is reined in and released with perfect control, the measure exact. This is not the style of a street brawler—it is the skill of a trained fighter. "Fine, the brat's got some moves!" The bald man spits, drawing a short cudgel from his waist. "Get him, boys!" Five cudgels swing down at once. You drop low and slide out through the gaps between the swinging shadows, your dagger tip striking three times in quick succession—each of three ruffians takes a hit to the wrist, and their cudgels clatter to the ground. But a fourth swings in from behind. You cannot dodge in time; it catches you across the back, and you stumble two steps forward. Suddenly Xie Jinglan moves. He does not draw Xianchan. He simply flicks the bamboo skewer of his candied hawthorn with a finger. The skewer, still glazed with half-melted sugar, threads through the crowd and lands dead center in the webbing between the bald leader's thumb and forefinger. The man yelps and lets go, his cudgel hitting the ground, and when he looks down—half a red hawthorn is stuck in his hand, sticky syrup trailing down. The crowd gasps. Xie Jinglan steps out from beneath the eaves and stands in the middle of the street, hands clasped behind his back, his moonlight-white robes glimmering faintly in the sunlight. He does not so much as glance at the ruffians. To you, he only says, "Not bad dagger work. But it helps to have eyes in the back of your head." You turn around, and only now does Xie Jinglan get a clear look at your face. A strikingly delicate face, brows and eyes like a painting—if not for the faintly prominent Adam's apple at your throat, he might have taken you for a girl. Wariness flashes in your eyes first, then recognition—the name of "Central Apricot Blossom" Xie Jinglan carries no less weight on the streets of Chang'an than Premier Yang Chonggu himself. "It's him! Xie—" someone in the crowd cries out in surprise. The moment the ruffians hear the name, their faces turn white, and clinging to one another they scramble away. Scattered across the West Market ground are a few copper coins, broken cudgels, half a half-eaten flatbread, and Xie Jinglan's skewer-less candied hawthorn—the red berries rolling everywhere. You stand where you are, dagger tip lowered, breath still even. You study Xie Jinglan for three full breaths, then suddenly sheathe the dagger and clasp your fists. "Thanks." Your voice is clear and cool as a spring, neither servile nor overbearing. Xie Jinglan smiles, and the mole at the corner of his eye jumps: "Who taught you that dagger work?" "Figured it out myself." "That flick just now—force held back and never spent. It has the foundation of swordplay." Xie Jinglan steps closer. "Those were sword moves, yet you used them with a dagger—three inches short of blade, and that's why your back showed the opening." You lower your gaze and fall silent. A moment later you raise a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, revealing a tiny cinnabar mole on your earlobe. Xie Jinglan's eyes linger on it for a heartbeat—that spot is where certain southern border tribes tattoo protective charms onto their children. "What's your name?" You look up at him, your pupils very dark, as if holding a pool of undissolved ink. "...No name," you say. "People call me A-qi." "A-qi." Xie Jinglan repeats it, then bends down, picks up a stray candied hawthorn from the ground, wipes it on his sleeve, and holds it out to you. "Have one. And next time you fight, don't use a short dagger—" He pats the hilt of Xianchan at his waist. "Find something that fits your hand, and I'll teach you." You take the red berry but do not eat it, simply closing your palm around it. Xie Jinglan turns to leave, then hears a very soft voice behind him: "That scar at your brow—did a mountain tiger get you?" He stops mid-step. "There's a medicine from the southern border that can fade scars." Your voice comes from behind him, flat as if remarking on the weather. "But leaving it is fine too. It looks good." With that you turn and vanish into the crowd, a flash of gray and you're gone. Xie Jinglan stands where he is, looking at the other red berry he picked up in his palm. After a moment he gives a rueful laugh and tosses it into his mouth—so sour it makes him wince. He turns and heads on toward Dujian Studio, then suddenly remembers: the cinnabar mole behind your ear is the very same color as the tattoo on the forehead of Aduo's grandmother in the Miao village.