Chapter 12: Traveling Together Part 4

Xiao Kun paid for a freshly made sugar figure for him. Chaosheng then went to look at the small fish at the riverside stalls. The aroma wafted on the wind. A row of vendors coated fresh fish and tiny crabs—whose names Xiang Xian couldn’t even recall—in flour, fried them in oil, packed them in paper, and sprinkled them with pepper, Sichuan peppercorn powder, and spiced salt. Even Xiang Xian couldn’t resist.

“One jin,” Xiang Xian said to the vendor. Seeing Xiao Kun standing there, he added, “Hey, Big Brother, pay up for us. Don’t just stand there like a fool.”

Xiao Kun was baffled. “Don’t you have any money?”

Xiang Xian replied righteously, “I spent it all on the road.”

Xiao Kun: “…”

Chaosheng looked at Xiao Kun. Xiao Kun took a deep breath. Xiang Xian added, “I heard you’re the Great Liao Crown Prince’s Lesser Guardian. Your salary must be pretty good.”

Xiao Kun: “I’m not the Crown Prince’s Lesser Guardian.”

“Chaosheng wants to eat. Hurry up,” Xiang Xian urged.

Xiao Kun had no choice but to pay. Xiang Xian then went to buy some local plum blossom wine. Chaosheng and Xiang Xian walked ahead, eating and strolling, while Xiao Kun followed behind with a cold expression, listening to their laughter and jokes. Occasionally, Chaosheng remembered Xiao Kun and turned back to feed him a few fried fish with a bamboo skewer.

By evening, the three returned to the inn in the East District.

Xiang Xian had already instructed the innkeeper that afternoon to prepare dinner—seasonal and fresh, nothing else.

The inn served a clay pot of fresh chicken stewed with Qingcheng winter bamboo shoots, simmering on a brazier of red-hot charcoal, releasing a fragrant steam. There was also a large plate of cured pork and a steamed cold-water stonehead fish with bones. The stonehead fish fell cleanly from the bones with a mere touch of chopsticks, its flesh as delicate as white jade.

Chaosheng sighed, “Now I know why they never wanted to go back. The mortal world is truly wonderful.”

Chaosheng racked his brains but couldn’t find words from his lifetime of knowledge to praise even a fraction of this mortal splendor. Xiang Xian, having met him that day, learned that back in the White Jade Palace, Chaosheng ate only boiled bean paste with flatbreads every day. Though there were occasional meat dishes, they were made by a pixiu—usually just chickens or ducks it caught, with eggs removed, boiled or roasted hastily.

After descending to the mortal world, though accompanied by Xiao Kun, Xiao Kun paid little attention to food and lodging, his mind always elsewhere. His three meals a day were often just buns or noodles. Thus, Xiang Xian deliberately wanted Chaosheng to enjoy himself properly.

“There are also places of sorrow in the mortal world,” Xiang Xian said. “But since you’re here, Big Brother wants you to see the world.”

“It’s so delicious, truly too delicious!” Chaosheng praised the delicacies endlessly.

Of course, all the expenses for the three were covered by Xiao Kun.

“Here, have a drink,” Xiang Xian poured wine for Xiao Kun and said, “Reunited after so long.”

Xiao Kun’s expression seemed to say “We’re not that close,” but in front of Chaosheng, he didn’t refuse and exchanged three cups with Xiang Xian.

Chaosheng gorged himself wildly and even lifted the clay pot at the end to drink the soup. Xiang Xian then told him about sights in the Guanzhong region. Before long, Chaosheng felt tipsy—this was his first time drinking alcohol in his life, after all. By the first watch of the night, he leaned against the railing by the river, drowsy.

“You should sleep,” Xiao Kun said to Chaosheng.

Chaosheng mumbled an “Mm” and rubbed his eyes without speaking. His eyes had turned red. Xiang Xian often felt like he and Xiao Kun were taking care of a child.

Xiao Kun picked up Chaosheng and carried him back to the guest room. Before leaving, their eyes met Xiang Xian’s by chance.

Xiang Xian knew he had something to say, so he called the waiter to clear the table, replacing the remnants with a small brazier warming a pot of sweet rice wine. After a while, Xiao Kun returned, apparently having washed his face himself. They sat cross-legged at a low table in the riverside pavilion.

“You’re good at taking care of people,” Xiang Xian said.

“Habit,” Xiao Kun said flatly. He lifted the kettle, poured for himself and Xiang Xian, and sprinkled in a pinch of dried osmanthus flowers, stirring them in.

Xiang Xian gazed at the river outside. Lights flickered along both banks. Though it was winter, Guanjiangkou’s night was just beginning. In the distance came the sound of pipes and flutes, accompanied by the melodious voice of a singing girl. The Erwang Temple lay on the other side of the river, appearing as a hazy gray mass shrouded in mist from this vantage.

“These past six months, every day was like this,” Xiao Kun said. He’d drunk a bit more than usual and was no longer sparing with words. “After returning to Yinchuan, we were betrayed not long after. That’s when I learned that during the time we were out, ‘Mr. Ying’ had come looking for Prince Yelu.”

Xiang Xian felt a twinge of doubt. He’d gotten the gist today but not the details. After a moment, he said, “Tell me more?”

So Xiao Kun sipped the sweet rice wine and recounted the entire story to Xiang Xian.

“What happened next?” Xiang Xian pressed, meanwhile pondering the possible origins of this “Mr. Ying.”