Chapter Nineteen: Assassination

The Drunken Moon Pavilion, where the courtesan resided, stood to the west of the Lakeheart Bridge, occupying nearly half the length of a street. The entire establishment resembled a lavish palace suspended above the water’s surface.

Li Pingyang shared a small boat with the woman sent by the courtesan, traveling by way of the water. Upon disembarking, the first thing he saw was a grand vermillion-lacquered gate, above which hung a wooden plaque bearing three bold, calligraphic characters: “Drunken Moon Pavilion.”

At the entrance stood two hostesses, alluringly dressed, their every gesture exuding charm. Spotting Li Pingyang—who, aside from possessing some measure of good looks, clearly signaled affluence by the money pouch at his waist—the two beauties hurried over to greet him.

They swayed their slender waists as they approached, each taking one of his arms, their melodious voices calling him “young master” in a string of coquettish endearments. Though both were famed within the Drunken Moon Pavilion, neither could rival the renown of the courtesan herself.

While they vied for his attention, several other young gentlemen arrived behind him, seeking diversion and solace within the pavilion. The prevailing social climate had grown more permissive; even officials now visited in private.

Li Pingyang, enveloped in a delicate fragrance and the attentions of the two beauties, was just beginning to enjoy himself when a familiar patron coughed, opening his folding fan with a flourish. Recognizing a regular, the two women quickly released Li Pingyang and turned to lavish their charms on the wealthier guest.

Left momentarily abandoned, Li Pingyang could only sigh. The woman sent to escort him covered her mouth to stifle a laugh, then tugged at his sleeve, urging him to follow.

The courtesan’s name was Liu Yan’er; before entering this house, she had been known as Liu Ruyan. Not only was she accomplished in the four arts—zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting—but she also possessed a deep mastery of verse and poetry.

Having penned verses as ingenious and celebrated as “Prelude to the Water Melody,” Liu Yan’er admired him not only for his talent but with the devotion of a true poetic admirer. Her portrait of him had been commissioned through various connections, based on descriptions from the poetry gathering—save for looking a little younger in person, the likeness was uncanny.

The Drunken Moon Pavilion rose three stories high. As the most sought-after beauty, Liu Yan’er naturally resided on the top floor, reserved for those whose appeal lay in art and intellect. She was the only one to have ascended by virtue of talent alone.

Aside from Su Liuyun, the heir of the Su family, there were many others willing to lavish fortunes simply to hear her sing and play.

As they walked, Li Pingyang took in the elegant décor. Soon, he was led to Liu Yan’er’s door. The escort knocked twice and announced softly, “Miss, your guest has arrived.”

After a moment, the door opened from within. Liu Yan’er, now clad in a gauzy robe, greeted Li Pingyang with an enchanting smile. Up close, her beauty sent his heart racing.

That beguiling smile nearly made Li Pingyang’s knees give out; he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself. The guide suppressed a laugh, saluted her mistress, and withdrew, leaving the two alone.

Upon entering the room, Li Pingyang was enveloped by a subtle scent—a blend of a woman’s boudoir and the freshness of dragon’s tongue grass—which made him momentarily dazed.

He sat nervously on a chair, mind blank, fumbling for a sweet pastry and nibbling it absentmindedly, hoping that eating might ease the awkwardness, though it only made things more uncomfortable. Seeing his bashful demeanor, Liu Yan’er couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh.

She wondered if this lauded scholar from Lanzhou was, perhaps, still an innocent. Amused, she decided to tease him, pouring a cup of wine with her slender, pale hands, then sitting deliberately in his lap.

Li Pingyang never fancied himself a saint immune to feminine wiles; he was simply a young man with blood running hot in his veins. Confronted with Liu Yan’er’s curvaceous figure, he felt his composure slipping, every inch of contact making him tingle as if ants crawled over his skin.

He thought of his past life—a twenty-something “old boy” who had never even held a girl’s hand, let alone experienced such thrilling intimacy.

A woman as beautiful as Liu Yan’er, in that former world, would have been nothing more than a distant fantasy, forever beyond his reach.

Liu Yan’er brought the wine to his lips, one hand resting on his shoulder. Even before tasting the wine, Li Pingyang felt intoxicated.

He steadied the cup and drained it, not spilling a drop. The atmosphere grew heavy with anticipation. What began as playful teasing now swept Liu Yan’er into its current as well.

Gazing at Li Pingyang’s handsome face, Liu Yan’er blushed involuntarily, her mind wandering. Compelled by an irresistible impulse, her lips moved toward his.

Li Pingyang almost wanted to cry; the whole scene felt utterly surreal, as if he were dreaming.

As Liu Yan’er’s rosy lips drew close, just when Li Pingyang was filled with anticipation, a sudden dizziness overtook him. Drowsiness pressed in.

Her exquisite face blurred before his eyes, his vision narrowing to a slit. In a daze, he heard her calling “young master” several times before consciousness slipped away.

The effects of the drug were taking hold.

Once sure Li Pingyang was asleep, Liu Yan’er hoisted him onto her bed, removed his shoes, set them neatly aside, and took off his outer robe.

Leaning close, she retrieved an ornate dagger from beneath her pillow and prepared to slip away. But as she turned, Li Pingyang happened to roll over, his arm encircling her waist and pulling her down atop him.

Whether by design or simple reflex, this unconscious gesture brought their lips together.

Startled, Liu Yan’er quickly broke free, drew her dagger in anger, and nearly stabbed him—only to halt, reason prevailing, the blade hovering before his eyes.

She had more urgent matters to attend to, and Li Pingyang could still be of use. Since he was fast asleep, only she would ever know of this incident.

In his presence, Liu Yan’er hurriedly changed into black clothing, veiled her face, slipped a compact crossbow into her sleeve, and climbed out the back window.

The next room was already dark, the lamps extinguished. Moving silently, Liu Yan’er approached the door and eased it open a sliver.

She rolled a bamboo canister into the room; it stopped beside the bed and began to emit plumes of white smoke.

Within, a man and a woman lay on the bed—the man about forty, the woman a courtesan of the Drunken Moon Pavilion. On the table rested the man’s sword and an official’s robe.

As the smoke dissipated, Liu Yan’er slipped inside, dagger in hand. She approached the bed, lifting the blade just as moonlight glinted off its edge, casting a pale light into the man’s eyes.

The woman beside him slept like the dead, but the man, suddenly illuminated, twitched his eyelids and snapped awake.

“It’s… you.”

“Uh…”

He recognized Liu Yan’er at once from her cold gaze. He tried to speak, but she silenced him with a swift cut to the throat. Hot blood welled from his lips.

With his last breath, the man tried to write a character in blood on the bed—the first stroke of “Liu”—but died before he could finish.