Poems About Orchids

“What do you mean, these poems were written by ‘Bai Kesi’?” snapped Chen Chou, waving the slim volume at the bookseller. “I’m a personal friend of Lan daren, um, Lan Peizhi, and I can tell you these were written by him!”

“There’s no patent on poems about orchids,” said the bookseller, who was starting to look cross. “Even if you think the wording is similar.”

“Similar my arse,” Chen Chou said, and went to hang out by the Imperial Court, where Lan daren and Wang daren were sure to pass by sooner or later.

Lan Jue didn’t jump when Mowen stormed back into his tea-room, but only because he’d heard his heavy footfalls all the way through the mansion. The ornamental brook could only cover so much noise.

“There’s no law against stealing another writer’s work and publishing it,” Mowen reported with a glower. He should already have known.

“Well, even if not,” Lan Jue mused, “perhaps Zhang Ping can think of a way.”

Morning.

The dawn sunlight had just turned golden when the bookseller arrived at his shop. He stopped dead in front of Zhang Ping and his bundled wares, face flipping between white and red.

“What is this?!”

Zhang Ping was impassive. “Books. To sell.”

“You’re selling these to me?”

“Mn. At a good price.”

Even a cheap price for these towering piles of books would be a fortune!

Zhang Ping eventually made his sale, and by afternoon the shop was full of idling literati, many of them leafing through the new collection of poetry by Minister Lan. Still, it would have been easier if Chen Chou had been with him.

“Hold still and let us treat you,” Wang Yan said impatiently. His hand was covered in strongly-smelling balm and Chen Chou kept twisting his shoulder away whenever he touched it.

“Sorry,” sniffled the patient. “It just hurts! You don’t know how hard it is to carve so many woodblocks in one night!”