Chapter Seven: A Rain of Poetry, A Sorrow of Verses

"Young master, let’s just leave. This wine isn’t worth drinking," Eight Taels urged, ever conscious of the preciousness of silver. He had lived a hard life and knew the value of money. If his young master’s verses failed to pass, not only would they miss the wine, but they would also lose ten taels of silver for nothing—a loss too great to bear.

Having made up his mind, Eight Taels made a move to leave the Three Flavors Pavilion.

But to his surprise, Li Zisheng blocked his path.

“Eight Taels, do you want a drink?”

“I do, young master, but this wine is not worth it. It’s far too expensive—ten taels of silver! Do you know how long it would take to earn that?” Eight Taels glanced at Li Zisheng, knowing well that his master’s family was not wealthy. Ten taels was a fortune. If his young master lost his head, Eight Taels was determined to stop him.

“It’s no matter. Just tell me, do you want to drink or not?” Li Zisheng understood what was in his servant’s heart.

“I do want to drink.”

“That is enough.” Li Zisheng burst out laughing.

“If I can’t even pass a mere tavern’s test, how could I ever hope to make my name known in the world? Ten taels of silver well spent,” he said with pride.

Hearing such words, the plump innkeeper frowned for the first time, a touch of displeasure crossing his face at Li Zisheng’s arrogance. Yet, being a merchant, profit mattered more than pride, so he quickly forced a smile and said,

“Haha, young master, you truly have spirit. But should you fail the test, don’t accuse our Three Flavors Pavilion of taking advantage of you.”

“Of course not. Now, set the challenge.”

“Please wait a moment while I fetch the questions from our head proprietor.” The fat innkeeper bowed with a smile and went upstairs, leaving Li Zisheng and Eight Taels waiting below. Outside, the crowd was already thickening.

They both noticed this, and Eight Taels felt his face burn. He had just mocked the tavern for having so few patrons, but in no time at all, so many had gathered.

All were dressed in plain blue robes, white fans in hand, scholars in appearance, with even a few elderly gentlemen in Confucian dress scattered among them. The morning’s drizzle had grown heavier, not enough to soak through, but enough to dampen clothes—yet it could not quench the enthusiasm of the crowd. Oddly, except for Li Zisheng and Eight Taels, the rest waited outside, as if by unspoken agreement, unwilling to enter for shelter.

“Brother Chen, look—someone’s already here, and it’s just a child.”

“Brother Zhou, it’s nothing. The time passes quickly. A child will soon be dismissed; we only need wait a moment.” Their conversation drifted to Li Zisheng and his companion, who understood at once.

“Young master, who would’ve thought this tavern would be so popular, and that there’s a rule about entering one by one? I’d like to see if the talents upstairs are truly so extraordinary that all these scholars flock here for a chance to compete,” Eight Taels muttered sourly, still skeptical.

Li Zisheng paid him no mind. He only marveled at the tavern owner’s shrewdness—using poetry as a gimmick, letting the crowd do the work while collecting silver with little effort. The head talent upstairs must be carefully selected, and the tavern’s only cost was some wine, which though promised in unlimited supply, was only available in-house, ensuring profit without risk.

“Young master, our head proprietor greatly admires your spirit, and so has adjusted the test. Since today’s rain seems endless, let it be the theme. One poem and one lyric—both on rain. Our talents above are skilled not only in poetry, but also in composing lyrics.”

“Oh? And what is gained by adding a lyric? If a single poem earns unlimited wine, surely your head proprietor will not be stingy with further rewards for an additional test,” Li Zisheng smiled at the innkeeper, waiting for his answer.

“Haha, young master jests. But indeed, our head proprietor has said that if you pass both, you may make one request—any request.”

“Oh? Then I am eager to try. The poem’s theme is rain from the heavens, but what of the lyric?”

“As for the lyric, our head proprietor wishes not to make it difficult for you. You may choose either longing or parting as your theme.” The fat innkeeper’s eyes were already tiny, but when he smiled, they disappeared entirely, making it impossible to read his expression.

“Agreed,” Li Zisheng replied, as the innkeeper explained the time limit—a single stick of incense.

He also announced the double challenge to the crowd outside, which immediately erupted in commotion.

“Poem and lyric? Lyrics are a lesser art, nothing compared to poetry. But to set them side by side, with the same time limit, makes it much more difficult.”

“Indeed.”

In the Great Tang, poetry was held in the highest esteem. Though there were scholars skilled in lyrics, the art was far less popular than poetry. Few gave lyrics serious attention, so it was odd for the tavern owner to propose such a challenge, especially with the added promise of any request as a reward.

The waiting crowd buzzed with debate.

Li Zisheng paid them no mind, lost in thought. Poems on rain were abundant, and lyrics on longing or parting even more so, but he wished to choose something truly fitting.

After a long silence, he decided on his poem.

“Eight Taels, lay out the paper and grind the ink.” The fat innkeeper had already provided brush, ink, and paper. With so many scholars coming each day, there was never a shortage.

“What fine brush, paper, and ink,” Li Zisheng admired inwardly. The writing set alone was worth a small fortune. The ten taels of silver were not wasted, especially since he would not have to pay.

He took up the brush and, with practiced hand, wrote “Spring in Jiangnan,” silently apologizing to Du Mu, for he was a hundred years ahead of the poet.

Orioles sing for miles, green reflects on red,
Village and town by rivers and hills, wine flags flutter in the breeze.
Four hundred eighty temples of Southern Dynasties,
How many towers and pavilions lost in the mist and rain.

Li Zisheng had practiced calligraphy for years, his brushwork now mature and elegant. The fat innkeeper watched as he finished, collected the paper, and hurried upstairs. Half the incense had burned away; the poem was done, but Li Zisheng was still pondering the lyric.

“Longing or parting—common themes in lyrics. Yet the head proprietor, with such business acumen, would not set these by chance. Promising a reward neither large nor small, there must be more behind this. When something is out of the ordinary, there is always another reason.”

It was this underlying motive that Li Zisheng now considered.

“The fat innkeeper said the Three Flavors Pavilion has stood for centuries—over a hundred years, which takes us back to the Sui, and before that, the Southern Dynasties. That’s why I chose ‘Spring in Jiangnan,’ as a subtle test of my own.”