The best Jianghu characters live by their passions and virtues—or so the storytellers say. At the moment, Yan found this metric to be wholly unrealistic. It was easy for them to proclaim such things when they raked in the coins at the end of the night for a story well-told. The rumored beauties who would bring an unknown swordsman home and provide him with food and board were mere literary fantasies of men who probably did not know many beautiful women. Not that he knew many either, but he was willing to bet money—money he didn’t have—that all beautiful women smelled nice. He took a whiff of his four-day-old clothes. They had stopped smelling bad to him yesterday. He’d been too tired to wash them last night.
In the end, even Jianghu heroes needed money to live, and what made money often had nothing to do with passion or virtue.
Yan sipped another mouthful of water as he plodded along the road, the midday sun beating down upon him. He tried to ignore his stomach’s complaining. If he closed his eyes and focused on the scent of pit-roasted fish lingering on his clothes, he could almost imagine he was having fish stew.
Soon, he would be in Danze, that riverside city made wealthy by merchants. Surely there would be people there looking for a mercenary’s services. He would get his pay and then treat himself to fish stew—no, the best meat money could buy. Braised pork glistening with fat, sliced thinly, and paired with fluffy, aromatic steamed buns and good, sweet liquor… After eating and drinking his fill, he would heat a bath for himself, then settle in for a good night’s sleep on a well-cushioned bed that didn’t smell of dirt and grass. The camphor would warn away the insects.
Such dreams dissipated when he capped his water skin and found it lighter once more. This was his new reality in the mountains: not enough food, not enough water; even imaginary fish stew was a luxury. Finding that stream last night had been a lucky fluke, when the mountains here were relatively low and barren, and parts of the country were apparently undergoing a small drought. The people at the trading post had mentioned that, he remembered.
Lack of foresight, lack of self-restraint, Yan could hear his grandfather chastising. Well, if the geezer had it his way, Yan would die on Mount Baimu a pruney old man without deed or honor to his name, chopping wood and catching fish for all his days. What would have been the point of his training if he’d just holed himself away in some remote cabin?
Damn that lying horse seller. He should have been in Danze by now, but Little Feather… His anger sank as he recalled that adorable gray mule and how it had perked up when he’d fed it a small pear. Thinking back, its lethargy might have been an early sign of its underlying poor health. A few hours after it ate his last pear, it had keeled over…
Did he have something on his forehead labeling him as an easy mark? Did he reek more metaphorically of the countryside?
Little Feather deserved better, even though they had only known each other for a short time. Hopefully he would remember where its grave was if he came this way again. He’d bring a pear; a basket of pears; no, a tower of pears—not the small, hard, and pocked kind either. Each one would be plump and perfectly round. Every bite would have a satisfying crunch that would soon melt away into honey-sweetness, and those juices would dribble down your chin every time you sank your teeth in. They would be the best pears Little Feather would have ever eaten on both sides of the river...
In this way, Yan went between fantasies of material comforts, grumbled justifications for his plight, and a pain over the memory of digging a shallow pit into loose earth with his blade in its scabbard.
When he finally looked up from this purgatorial exercise, the sun was beginning to fall below the horizon. As its last ember lit upon the trees, he saw fire and smoke in the distance, smelled an acridity belying the scent of simple home-making. Here was a refuge at the end of the apocalyptic heat.
From the gloom and smoke emerged the shapes of a merchant caravan settling down for the night. Armed men patrolled the camp’s periphery, but as far as Yan could tell, none of them wore any uniform indicating connection to a family or a transport agency. Yan sniffed the air for a hint of what they were cooking over the fire.
“Who goes there?”
A figure clad in pale brown looked in his direction from the tree line. The voice sounded clear and youthful, and at once familiar.
“Only a traveler seeking a meal in exchange for his services,” Yan replied.
He approached carefully with his head held high, trying not to seem too suspicious or desperate. Here was a storied hero at a glance, oozing virtue from his pores as equally as he was oozing body odor—perhaps a hero down on his luck. Any potential misunderstanding might be fixed by a bar of soap, or even a nice dinner. That was the impression he wanted to convey.
But the other man's reaction to him was inscrutable. The man's features, though partially shadowed by nightfall, possessed a strange, familiar grace by the fire’s glow. Wavering in the twilight between the conscious and the subconscious of Yan’s memory, the face seemed to him that which could only belong to a spirit. A moment passed without a word from either of them before Yan realized the man was also studying him back.
Recognition dawned upon the sell-sword's face.
“Swordsman Yan, is that you?”
Yan faltered, then felt a surge of the immense joy that comes from seeing a friendly face in a hostile land.
“Qingran, you rascal! How'd you get here?” For a moment, he felt he could forget his hunger. He patted his friend’s shoulders with an enthusiasm that left him light-headed.
“Do you happen to have anything to eat?”
Yan was on his third piece of rations when Qingran’s employers relieved him from his shift. Night had settled in; the fire had been extinguished, lest it attracted bandits. Yan could feel a chill in his bones, but he ignored it in favor of the meal before him. After all, there was no knowing when his next one would be. They were also quite fancy rations; each cake had a unique flavor. Yan found himself reliving memories of the second one: bites of fragrant candied meat jam, surprised by a generous sprinkling of savory peanuts. Only guilt (and pain in his chest from eating too quickly) prevented him from taking any more out of Qingran’s personal supply.
Qingran, with perfect timing, passed a bowl into Yan’s hands.
“I kept it warm on the coals. It isn’t much, but please have some.”
Yan nodded in gratitude. Though the “stew” was largely water thickened by starch sprinkled with the occasional bitterness of wild greens, it helped the rations go down easier. Warmth spread throughout his body, and Yan finally noticed just how cold it had become. He rubbed his fingers together in an attempt to chase away the numbness.
“If only you’d come earlier, you would have gotten some of the salted meat,” Qingran teased good-naturedly as he watched Yan slurp down the dregs.
Yan was licking his lips over a meal well-finished when he felt the prickle of another gaze on him. He looked around. The other mercenaries were either resting their eyes or keeping vigil. Each one held their weapon close, except for an old Buddhist priest who looked ill-at-ease sitting on the tree stump the others had reserved for him.
Qingran addressed this old man fading away into the folds of his robes and the wide patchwork of his own jiasha.
“Master, if you are cold, please use my hand warmer.”
From his sleeve, Qingran withdrew a ceramic holder of superior glaze. The coals within glowed dimly, releasing the fragrance of sandalwood.
The old man’s eyes lit up for a brief moment before he reached out with trembling hands: “Benefactor, you are too kind.”
“Not at all. This is the least I can do,” Qingran demurred.
That hand warmer was probably worth a small fortune, but Qingran had always been noble and kind, believing in the best of everyone he met. Yan didn’t doubt that the younger man’s generosity was one of the reasons why they had become friends in the first place, despite their differences in age and background.
Yan decided to ask a question that had come to mind.
“Say, Qingran, this road is pretty well-traveled. How come you and your employers aren’t staying at an inn? It should be off-season, too. Well, I can’t complain though-” Yan broke off at Qingran subtly tugging on his sleeve.
They exchanged glances, then went off into the trees.
Qingran lowered his voice, tone delicate:
“Swordsman Yan, I can’t fault you for not knowing, but the subject is a sore topic for Master Faxu. We found him on the road to the inn, panicked and filthy with the blood of his companions. There have always been bandits along this road since Danze became prosperous, but they’ve been particularly bold of late. The inn has been commandeered, and I do not know if there are any other survivors.”
Yan opened his mouth in silent understanding.
“Aye, curse my rotten tongue. I’ve said the wrong thing again.”
At that, Qingran smiled. It was a smile that brought Yan back to the early, rambunctious days of their friendship.
“What do you say we take out that den of villainy?”
