Chapter 027: Reciting Poetry

“Just tossed them casually,” Li Zaixing remarked offhandedly. “I suppose it’s passable, isn’t it?”

Wei Yingwu nearly coughed up blood in exasperation. Passable? Could he not see Wang Zhun’s face had turned the color of pig’s liver? Still, Wei was no pushover himself. Seeing Wang Zhun outdone and unable to lay claim to Miss Miao, he was inwardly delighted, and decided to add fuel to the fire, giving Li Zaixing a bit of a hard time.

“Your performance is certainly commendable, but that also depends on your opponent. If your rival hadn’t been so weak, I doubt it would have been so easy for you, Brother Li.” Wei chuckled slyly. “Pitch-pot is dull stuff; let us compose poetry instead. Today, after all, we are celebrating the success of the new scholars—how can we not recite a few lines?”

Li Zaixing’s eyes darted, and he smiled. “I know nothing of poetry, so don’t press me. As for pitch-pot, I’m on a roll, but it’s dull without a proper opponent. Wei Sanlang, how about a wager? If you win, that fine Teler steed is yours.”

The mention of the Teler steed made Wei’s heart race. Yet, glancing at the pot bristling with arrows, he shuddered. He had claimed it wasn’t difficult, but inwardly he knew he stood no chance against Li Zaixing. The horse was merely a tempting bait—who knew what trickery Li Zaixing was plotting?

Wei was no fool like Wang Zhun; he wouldn’t fall for it.

“There’s plenty of time for pitch-pot. We can compete another day.” Wei tugged at Li Zaixing’s sleeve. “Come, let’s recite poetry. To make a name in Chang’an, skill at pitch-pot is not enough; one must rely on learning.”

Wang Zhun’s face flickered between red and white. Wei’s words stabbed at his heart. He’d already performed beyond his usual level, yet now was cast as the weak opponent. As for making verses, he was as clueless as Li Zaixing—Wei was ostensibly speaking of Li, but who’s to say he didn’t mean Wang Zhun too? As for Wei himself, was he much better at poetry?

Wang Zhun was about to explode, but Miss Miao tugged his sleeve. “Thirteenth Young Lord, let’s leave it at that.”

Suddenly Wang Zhun understood—if he lost, he’d have to bark like a dog. It was a tie now, but Li Zaixing still had five arrows left. If he shot again, Wang would be utterly humiliated. Realizing this, he quickly covered his mouth, turned away nonchalantly, and pretended not to hear Wei’s jibes.

Li Zaixing raised his brows in mild irritation. “Wei Sanlang, each has his strengths and weaknesses. Not making poetry is no shame—why force others? I’ve already said, I don’t know the first thing about rhyme or meter. How can I compose a poem?”

Several guests looked over at the growing dispute between Li and the host, Wei Yingwu. Du Fu stood nearby, but dared not intervene. He had already composed a poem during the pitch-pot match, and though he’d racked his brains over it, the response had been lackluster—neither applause nor jeers. Realizing he had no standing to speak for Li, he could only watch with embarrassment as Wei pressed him.

Wei had invited Li Zaixing precisely to embarrass him; he would not let Li off just because he claimed ignorance. He laughed heartily. “If you don’t know about rhyme, we’ll make an exception. Regardless of rhyme or form, whether a ballad or regulated verse, five or seven syllables—it’s all fine. As long as you compose something on the spot, we’ll count it as a pass. How about it?”

Li Zaixing’s eyes gleamed and he relaxed inwardly. All that mattered was rhyme, and if that didn’t count, he could just recite some lines he half-remembered. He hadn’t read much, but surely could recall a poem or two. Though happy inside, he made his face look even more distressed. “I truly can’t compose. How about I just take a drinking penalty? I’ve seen others do so without composing a poem.”

As he spoke, he reached for a cup, poured himself wine, lifted it high, and declared, “I am Li Zaixing. I haven’t had much education and cannot compose poetry. Today, sitting among you, the stars of literature, I dare not make a fool of myself. With this cup, I beg your pardon.”

He was about to drink when Wei seized his arm, putting on a stern face. “That won’t do. We’re already going easy on you—not even requiring rhyme. If you still refuse, that’s being overly coy. The wine must be drunk, and the poem recited, however you manage it. Even if you make up nonsense, we’ll count it. That’s not too much to ask, is it? If you refuse, you’re slighting both me and all present.”

Li Zaixing shot Wei a glare, leaned close, and whispered, “Wei Sanlang, are you set on making me look bad today?”

Wei replied with a false smile, “You flatter me, Brother Li, you flatter me.”

Li Zaixing sighed helplessly, set down the cup, and scratched his head. “Since you insist, I’ll string together a few lines at random. But let me finish my arrows first.”

Wei grinned. “Quickly now—we’re all waiting for your poem.”

Li Zaixing was in no hurry. Picking up his arrows, he tossed them one after another into the pot, each arrow ringing true. All five flew in succession, easy as anything, earning him another seventy points. He shrugged at Wang Zhun, whose face was ashen. “Thirteenth Young Lord, it’s time to bark like a dog.”

Wang Zhun was dumbstruck. He’d thought Li had forgotten, but instead, Li had circled back and cornered him with nowhere to hide.

Wei, who had grown impatient, was now delighted and urged Wang Zhun to bark. The others, though less direct, were all waiting to watch the spectacle. Cornered, Wang Zhun glared venomously at Li, flushed red, opened his mouth, and barked seven times before storming off.

Miss Miao, pale with fright, rose to chase after him, but Li Zaixing blocked her path and chuckled. “Don’t forget our wager. Wait for me in your chamber. Once I’m done here, I’ll come to share a drink and a chat.”

She glanced at him, then unexpectedly smiled. “Very well, a wager is a wager. I’ll wait in my room.” With that, she swept past him and hurried after Wang Zhun. But when she reached the door, he was already gone.

Her elder sister, Yang Laier, hurried over and scolded, “Miao’er, what were you thinking, provoking that troublemaker?”

Yang Miao pouted. “Sister, I didn’t provoke him! It was that country bumpkin who egged on Wei Sanlang to force Thirteenth Young Lord to bark like a dog. Can he even compare himself to Wei Sanlang? Thirteenth Young Lord dares not offend Wei, but could crush that fellow like an ant.”

Having already learned what happened, Yang Laier’s face darkened. “Still talk back? Didn’t you suggest the dog-barking penalty? Now look at the mess. Let’s see how you handle it.”

Frantic, Yang Miao clutched her sister’s arm. “Sister, what should I do?”

Yang Laier frowned in thought. “That lad came to our house and wagered with Wang Zhun—clearly, he fancies you. Best you humor him for a while, try to persuade him to leave the city before curfew, and lay low for a few days. No sense throwing away his life for nothing.”

“Me, humor him?” Yang Miao’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not! He’s crude and vulgar, utterly uncouth. I won’t speak to him—if anyone should, it’s you. At worst, Mother can scold me.” She turned on her heel and stormed off before Yang Laier could intercede.

Yang Laier’s face turned pale with anger, but she couldn’t just let things be. Biting her lip, she called a maidservant over, whispered a few words, and sent her quickly toward Li Zaixing.

After Wang Zhun and Yang Miao left, Wei Yingwu, in high spirits, seized upon Li Zaixing once more, eager to force him to compose a poem. He was determined to leave Li with a reputation for foolishness and give everyone something to laugh about. It wasn’t enough for Li to admit ignorance; he wanted him to spout drivel, so he’d have proof for future ridicule—a small but satisfying revenge.

Li Zaixing saw through Wei’s motives and had no intention of letting him off so easily. He put on a show of wracking his brains, sighing, “Wei Sanlang, you really are setting me up for embarrassment. I still have to go share wine and conversation with the young lady afterward—if word gets out, won’t she laugh at me?”

Wei’s heart was pricked like a needle. It was good that Li had bested Wang Zhun and foiled his designs on Yang Miao, but was Li Zaixing really any better? The thought of him going to Yang Miao’s chamber for a private conversation—and perhaps more—filled him with complex emotions. All the more reason to make Li recite a poem, to disgrace him and tarnish his image in Yang Miao’s heart. If she were to drive him out, so much the better.

“With a beauty awaiting, Brother Li, you’d best not tarry,” Wei forced a smile. “Don’t squander her favor.”

“Indeed, a single moment with a fair lady is worth a thousand in gold. I’ll be quick, recite my poem, and go to her. It would be rude to keep her waiting.”

“Precisely, precisely,” Wei echoed, forcing a smile though his feelings were tangled. He wanted the laugh at Li’s expense, but couldn’t bear the thought of Li going off with Yang Miao.

Li Zaixing cleared his throat and grinned. “Then I shall recite. But let me warn you, I know nothing of poetry—just some nonsense, so please forgive any improprieties.”

“Go on, go on, no one will laugh,” Wei said excitedly. “Everyone, quiet—Brother Li is about to recite.”

The guests tried to stifle their laughter. They could tell Wei’s intentions—plainly, he wanted to make a fool of this country bumpkin. Rhyme was the bare minimum for poetry; if one didn’t even know what rhyme was, what sort of poem could they produce? It would surely be a farce, full of errors—a laughingstock. To put it bluntly, this was all for amusement. Wei had invited him here just to entertain everyone.

Du Fu covered his face, unable to watch.

Wang Shiyilang frowned in sympathy. He wished to intervene, but one look at Wei held him back. Sighing inwardly, he could only lament in silence.