Chapter Nineteen: The Tree Longs for Stillness, but the Wind Will Not Cease

“My residence?” Chen Ying asked in confusion. “I don’t own a house in Chang’an.”

“In the past, General Chen did not, but now you do,” Wei Ting replied with a faint smile. “His Highness the Crown Prince, upon learning that General Chen had no place to stay, has gifted you a vacant residence at the southeastern corner of Changren Ward.”

“I cannot accept reward without merit,” Chen Ying instinctively shook his head. “I appreciate the Crown Prince’s kindness, but I am a rough man—anywhere will do for me for a night’s rest.”

Wei Ting’s face turned cold at once, displeasure clear in his tone. “General Chen, I urge you to reconsider. This is a rare chance to enter service under the Eastern Palace.”

“If the Crown Prince commands, I dare not refuse,” Chen Ying replied. “Please, Mr. Wei, thank His Highness on my behalf.”

Chen Ying, though not well-versed in history, was keenly aware that soon enough the rivalry between Crown Prince Li Jiancheng and Prince Qin, Li Shimin, would become a deadly feud. If he accepted a position under Li Jiancheng, he would inevitably become a target for Prince Qin’s powerful faction—the likes of Fang Xuanling, Du Ruhui, Changsun Wuji’s ruthlessness, and Xu Jingzong’s venomous cunning. Chen Ying had no wish to cross such formidable figures.

Where the struggle between the Crown Prince and Li Shimin was concerned, his only wish was to steer clear. A grand residence, though valuable, was not worth risking one’s life for.

Wei Ting had never expected Chen Ying to be so oblivious to the opportunity. Struggling to contain his anger, he said impatiently, “General Chen, do not be stubborn. The Crown Prince admires you. If we cannot be friends, we are bound to be enemies.”

Even earth has its temper, and Chen Ying’s stubbornness flared. He retorted coldly, “Is that a threat, Mr. Wei?”

“You may take it as you wish,” Wei Ting replied, barely concealing his anger. Inwardly, he scoffed, “Who do you think you are, Chen Ying? By a twist of fate you rendered some minor service, and now you put on airs?”

Chen Ying knew that Li Jiancheng would meet his end in eight years, but at present, the Crown Prince could crush him with a finger, as easily as squashing an ant. Yet he was not someone who took kindly to threats. His mind raced, and suddenly, inspiration struck.

“I serve under Princess Pingyang, Mr. Wei. You would do well to consider your next move.”

Wei Ting’s face flushed scarlet; he pointed at Chen Ying, speechless with anger.

“You—”

Without another word, Chen Ying turned stiffly and strode into the city.

Once inside the city walls, the guards from the Prince Zhao and Prince Qin’s mansions bid Chen Ying farewell, each returning to their respective lords to report. Only Zhang Huaiwei, You Ziying, and four attendants remained at Chen Ying’s side. From the Jinyang Volunteer Battalion, only four had followed him to Chang’an: Chen Huairen, recently dismissed from the medical corps, his two apprentices Zhao Yuanqiao and Li Qiqi, and a soldier named Liang Zan from Jinyang.

Liang Zan, to speak frankly, was a ne’er-do-well from Jinyang, surviving on petty theft and swindling, notorious in the city, and only joined Chen Ying’s retinue out of necessity.

“General Chen, why did you refuse the Crown Prince’s house?” Liang Zan asked, puzzled. “Where are we sleeping tonight?”

“A sudden gift for no reason is either a trickster’s ploy or a thief’s design,” Chen Ying replied, meeting the confused gazes of his men. “Brothers, we’ve all crawled out of heaps of corpses together—Chen Ying will not deceive you. The Crown Prince’s gifts are not so easily taken. Some things are simply too hot to handle.”

The others seemed only half-comprehending.

As night fell, Chen Ying found them a temporary lodging at a humble inn called Xu’s. It was an ordinary establishment: six street-facing rooms, a handful of hitching posts and feed troughs for travelers’ horses, and behind the facade, several small courtyards separated by partitions.

For the sake of safety, Chen Ying rented an entire courtyard, which included two main rooms and two side wings, six guest rooms in all—just enough for each man to have his own. There was even a stable for the horses.

Once their belongings were settled, Chen Ying led Zhang Huaiwei, You Ziying, and the others to the main hall for a meal. The hall was plain: a scattering of tables, and in the northeast corner by the kitchen, two curtained booths, their upper halves shrouded with blue cloth.

The seven had barely sat down when a fragrant breeze swept past. A young, beautiful woman of about twenty-five or six, her skin fair and her hair arranged in a married woman’s style, walked over with elegant composure—the proprietress herself.

“What would the gentlemen like to eat?” she asked in a sweet, melodious voice.

“Bring us your best dishes,” Chen Ying said. “Money is no object.”

The proprietress smiled behind her hand, but did not immediately respond. Chen Ying glanced down and instantly understood why.

Though his indigo robes were freshly laundered, the fabric was slashed in several places during the Jinyang fighting and had yet to be mended, leaving him looking rather shabby. Zhang Huaiwei’s black uniform was faded to gray and his boots had a hole exposing a big toe. You Ziying and Chen Huairen looked no better—down-at-heel and destitute.

None of the seven looked remotely like men of means.

“Damn,” Chen Ying muttered, realizing he’d just been looked down upon by a young lady.

“You think I’m broke?” he blustered, reaching into his sleeve—then his face flushed red to the roots.

He wasn’t penniless: the gentry of Jinyang, especially Qin Gu, had gifted him ample silver, a thousand taels at least. But who carried a hundred pounds of silver on their person for a stroll through the city?

With a gust of wind, Chen Ying dashed to the rear courtyard, fetched two silver ingots from his room, and hurried back to the front.

With a thud, he slapped a silver ingot down before the proprietress.

Her eyes lit up at once. Silver and gold were not everyday currency, but they were tokens of rank. Commoners rarely saw silver; even if they had silver ornaments made for their wives, it came from years of scrimping and saving, and was of poor quality. Anyone with real silver or gold was either wealthy or noble, at the very least well off.

“Is this enough?” Chen Ying asked.

The proprietress beamed. “More than enough! Our braised duck is the house specialty, and the cold sliced beef is a favorite too. Would you like to try them?”

“Bring us two jars of your best wine as well,” Chen Ying said. “Tonight, let’s drink our fill, brothers!”

There weren’t many other diners in the inn, so the food arrived quickly. As the servers brought out the dishes—old broth duck, boiled lamb ribs, and plain stewed meat—Chen Ying noted that every dish was either boiled, stewed, or steamed; there seemed to be no other methods of cooking.

If he weren’t so ravenous, Chen Ying might have found it hard to swallow such fare. As it was, after a day’s hunger, no one was in the mood to be picky. The five pounds of lamb was devoured almost as soon as it was served, gone in the time it took for half a stick of incense to burn.

The seven of them, all rough men hardened by military life, ate with no pretense of elegance, slurping and chomping like starved dogs.

Suddenly, jeering laughter drifted over from the next booth. At first, Chen Ying paid it no mind.

“What a pack of mongrels!” came a voice.

Mongrels, meaning stray dogs—Chen Ying’s face darkened.

Hot-tempered Liang Zan would not take such an insult. He immediately shouted back, “Curse your mother! You’re the mongrel here! Your whole damn family are mongrels!”