Mayumi stirred from slumber with a weary yawn. Last night's reading had exacted its toll, though she had stolen a few hours of rest before dawn broke across the tiled roofs. In earlier days, she would rise at first light, rouse her snoring sister and drag Satchiko from bed. That ritual she missed most of all.
She crossed the courtyard, where discarded papers lay scattered in untidy drifts. Shan forbade her from tidying, though he himself lacked the leisure to do so. He is a stubborn man, yet strangely consistent in honoring even his oddest rules.
Her gaze lingered upon his chamber. Behind the papered lattice glowed a faint light, the silhouette of a solitary figure shifted within.
Has he not slept?
Mayumi padded to the northern chamber and knocked upon the door.
"I remain awake," came Shan's voice. "You may proceed."
She slid the door aside. The White Scholar stood bent over his desk, surrounded by books piled like miniature ramparts. Before him lay a painting, and his unwavering eyes drank in its details.
"Morning, Shan," she greeted, voice formal despite her drowsiness.
"Morning," he replied, his face as impassive as ever. One might never guess he had labored through the night, fatigue left no mark upon that austere countenance.
On the wall hung the commissioned poem, newly completed. Its calligraphy is exquisite, every character rendered with reverence, each syllable transformed into art. The verses unfurled against a painted backdrop of mountains and rivers, an image as serene as it was sublime. Shan had plumbed stacks of literature for inspiration, and the scattered tomes spoke of his method.
Nature's beauty translated into metaphor, rivers likened to grace, blossoms to fleeting loveliness. Among the books she glimpsed a treatise on Li Hei, a poet who lived during the Earth Kingdom's most glorious golden age. Such painstaking preparation reminded her that poetry, though brief, distilled oceans of meaning into a handful of words.
Her eyes strayed to the opening line.
A blush warmed her cheeks. She quickly looked away. Shan's ink brush spared nothing in the realm of perfection. While she understood the ruse that these verses would be attributed to Gong Zi in hopes of securing a union between two Upper Ring houses, she wondered whether perfection itself might be perilous. Could the Ganjinese heir ever recite such lines without sounding lesser by comparison? A single misstep might expose the deceit, unraveling the marriage alliance that Shan's mentor deemed vital to chain a general's loyalty to this state instead of another?
Mayumi drifted behind him, her gaze falling upon the painting. Lady Qian Jin emerged upon the page in flowing silk, seated gracefully with a zither upon her lap. The rendering was astonishingly lifelike, despite Shan's mastery lying in the freer strokes of Ink Wash rather than the meticulous precision of Gongbi, the style preferred by the Gan Jin patriarch. Yet his hand had met the challenge with characteristic resolve, producing an image exquisite enough for the salons of the Upper Ring.
But one detail, or rather, the lack of one, struck her immediately.
"I have never laid eyes on Lady Qian Jin," Shan said. "Except for her family, no one had."
The portrait bore no face.
"You did not see her at the Keju ceremony?" Mayumi asked.
Shan shook his head, explaining that Lady Qian Jin is more cloistered than even most noble daughters. Sheltered within her family estate, she was seldom glimpsed by outsiders. Whispers abounded that her beauty rivaled the famed Lady Te Gaogui, yet such rumors were as intangible as mist.
"This will draw suspicion," Shan said, frowning at the faceless figure he had labored to conjure. "Gong Zi may claim acquaintance, but I cannot portray what I have not seen."
His skill could conjure a vision of beauty, but a false likeness would doom Gong Zi's pretense, tarnishing not only the suitor but the honor of his entire household.
With a flick, Shan snapped open his fan and cooled himself. "The Gan Jin patriarch may be a man of culture," he said. "Yet even he failed to anticipate this obstacle. It is indeed a troublesome predicament."
The chief peril lay in Shan's brush daring to fashion a visage too estranged from reality. Rumors of Qian Jin's famed beauty remained uncertain. If she proved more homely in truth, how then would young master Gong Zi justify an audacious embellishment of her charms?
Mayumi exhaled softly. Seeking to affect a rustic candor, she stepped toward the chamber's heart where a zither and a solitary chair awaited. Shan had copied them faithfully onto the parchment, though she wondered idly from whence the silk of Qian Jin's gown had sprung, for no such garment lay present.
"I do not suppose Lady Qian Jin has any true skill with this instrument?" she asked. Among Ba Sing Se's patricians, pursuits like music, painting, or Pai Sho are deemed as the epitome of refinement. No noblewoman of standing could afford to lack at least one such cultivated art.
"Yours truly believes she does," Shan replied with unwavering gravity. "The Gan Jin patriarch has arranged many encounters between young master Gong Zi and Lady Qian Jin. I can attest with certainty that she has shown the grace of a musician." His eyes strayed toward Mayumi, observing her interest in the zither, a matter they had already agreed she would not touch. "Time presses. If the patriarch neglected to specify her true talents, it shall be his undoing."
He raised his brush, dipping it into a rough-hewn wooden bowl, a makeshift ink vessel born of his shattered inkstone. Yet before the bristles kissed paper, his hand faltered.
To paint edifices and lifeless forms was simple, for stone betrayed no sentiment. But a face carried a thousand fleeting moods. He had not even resolved what expression Qian Jin ought to wear upon the page.
"If it is not an undue burden," Shan said at last. "Would you sit by the zither? I require a point of reference to conjure her likeness."
Mayumi lowered herself onto the chair, her hands poised above the strings. Proximity revealed the instrument's wear of aged timber, a crudely made relic unmistakably wrought in the Lower Ring. She positioned her hands as dictated.
"Will this suffice?" she asked, lifting her eyes to him. His silence lingered strangely. "Shan? Are you with me?"
She noticed then the near-slip of his brush, his sudden tightening grip betraying some hidden disturbance. Yet he recovered swiftly, dipping the brush into ink before setting its stroke upon the parchment. Her neutral composure became the model, and thus the portrait emerged with equal restraint.
True to his rank as Zhuangyuan, the task did not detain him long. When the brush at last left the paper, Mayumi drew near to judge.
"Your honest critique is required," Shan intoned.
She regarded the face with uncertainty. Childhood memories of a village painter's crude family portrait offered her only measure. This one at least would raise no suspicion. Long dark hair concealed the likeness well. Anonymity, not perfection, was what she desired.
"It is good," Mayumi said simply, choosing the safest of verdicts.
"Yours truly also deems it acceptable," Shan murmured with faint detachment. He pinned the sheet to the wall to dry. According to him, the commissions will be delivered today. Yet he cannot go myself. Too perilous would it seem for the White Scholar to appear at the Gan Jin estate so near the time young master Gong Zi unveils these works as his own. "The patriarch's prestige totters already. If word spread that his son leaned upon my craft to embellish their worth, this arranged marriage would flounder. Even whispers may ignite conflagrations. The Upper Ring tolerates no scandal. You grasp what tales might arise if I were to be seen wandering that household."
Mayumi did indeed. The citizens of the Upper Ring lived by slander and suspicion, feeding on rumor as ravenously as beggars upon bread.
"You wish me to deliver the paintings," she said, perceiving his intent. "Another hand, less conspicuous than yours."
"You are not wholly unknown among the nepotists," Shan cautioned.
"I know my presence at your inauguration was inconvenient, but you would risk more in employing another, one who might betray your secrets."
Shan inclined his head in tacit approval. To be glimpsed himself would imperil Gong Zi's masquerade. Yet to dispatch Mayumi bore its own hazard, for she too could be traced back to him. Discovery would heap dishonor upon Qian Jin's father, a general whose pride could not withstand such shame.
At length, consensus was reached. Mayumi alone would bear the finished works to the Gan Jin patriarch's halls. Yet what Shan did not foresee was that his retainer, newly sworn though she was, harbored designs of her own. Plans that would lead her far from the ordinary roads.
...
The Gan Jin tribe were once wanderers pressed beyond the walls, refugees driven by the ruinous war caused by the Fire Nation. Seeking deliverance from endless conflict, they found shelter in this city. Though far removed from their ancestral soil, they preserved their unity, guided by the patriarch who oversaw both their spiritual rites and familial order. Their cultivated way of life won them esteem in Ba Sing Se, carving a seat of dignity within the Upper Ring. Yet such honor is a fragile crown that every generation must bear its weight. A single misstep, however slight it may be, is enough to tarnish even the most lustrous reputation.
Plainly disguised and wearing a straw hat, Mayumi's hand brushed against her satchel, ensuring the two parchments remained within. For the sake of this clandestine act, Shan approved her usage of covertly delivering the finished masterpieces. How exhausting it must be to live a life woven of intrigue and ceaseless theatrics. Yet for the aristocracy, such a masquerade was not excess but expectation. Though she is the daughter of a village chief, her heart still bore the stamp of simplicity. The gilded courtesies of the Upper Ring already repelled her despite the lingering fascination towards this city's austere history. Amid such opulence, one of humble origin is no more than roadside grass, trampled without notice.
Before her rose rows of stately dwellings, severe in their symmetry and devotion to tradition. Golden roof tiles gleamed against immaculate walls of pale stone, enclosing a world sealed from decay and unkempt. Delicate motifs, curling like drifting clouds lent a grace to the facades. These homes mirrored their occupants' attire of being immaculately maintained, not a blemish to mar their proud presentation.