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and thus survived down to the present day.
    Generally acknowledged to be the finest poet of the Northern Sung period,Su wrote in both the
shih
and
tz’u
styles, with a fine eye for descriptive detail.
    A very fine eye…
    Jiang Lei sat back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Reaching across he took his book and opened it at his favourite piece. It was only four lines; even so, it was probably the most evocative of all Su Tung-p’o’s works. He read it aloud.
    ‘Spring night – one hour worth a thousand gold coins;
    clear scent of flowers, shadowy moon.
    Songs and flutes upstairs – threads of sound;
    In the garden, a swing, where night is deep and still.’
    Jiang closed his eyes, savouring the lucidity of the poem; how it pushed aside the cloak of years and spoke to now. He himself struggled endlessly for such uncluttered beauty in his poems, and here it was. He particularly liked the way it spoke to all the senses, and then, at the very end, to mystery itself: ‘
where night is deep and still
’.
    Reading that part again, he gave a little shiver.
    I toast you, brother
, he said in his thoughts, reaching for his wine bowl and lifting it to the air.
Across the long centuries I salute you
.
    ‘Master?’
    He turned. Steward Ho was standing there in the doorway, Jiang’s night clothes over one arm.
    ‘It is late, Master. I thought…’
    Jiang smiled. ‘I know. I should get some sleep. I have an important day tomorrow, neh?’
    Only an hour before his audience, Jiang Lei was told, by the appropriate official in the correct and most formal manner, that Tsao Ch’un was otherwise engaged. Their ‘meeting’ was to be delayed until a time suitable for both.
    Having stood there for the best part of two hours, in the unfamiliarly heavy cloth of his dress uniform, Jiang Lei could have been forgiven if he groaned. He had come so close – through six different doorways and six entirely different ‘ceremonies’ until he stood before the ‘dragon gate’. His Master, Tsao Ch’un, sat there behind it, on his massive throne on the far side of the great hall. And now it was to be delayed.
    But Jiang Lei did not groan. Nor did he show the smallest sign ofimpatience or disappointment. Instead, he bowed low to Tsao Ch’un’s messenger and, gripping the heavy scroll which contained the papers of his appointment as general tightly against his chest, turned about and marched crisply back the way he’d come. His eyes stared ahead, passing back through the imposing doorways, past the endless uniformed lackeys and stiff-mannered officials until he was outside again, on the white marble steps, breathing in the cool morning air.
    Was it a snub? If so, why summon him halfway round the world to deliver it?
    No. The more he thought about it, the more he felt it genuine. Something had come up. Something more urgent than a meeting with one of his lowly generals.
    So what now? How long would it be until his audience was rescheduled? He had heard that Tsao Ch’un would sometimes keep a supplicant waiting for months, even years, before he’d see them. And then only for the briefest moment. But those were supplicants. Rich men who needed a favour from their Master, the Son of Heaven. He, Jiang Lei, was not here for favours. Not that he really knew quite why he had been summoned, only that it was not at his instigation. Tsao Ch’un
wanted
to see him. He would not waste his time otherwise.
    So why not make a few visits?
    Jiang tried to keep calm, but his heart was racing suddenly at the thought that had come into his head. He did not even know whether it would be allowed. But surely he had to try – while he was here?
    He would visit Chun Hua. Would go to see her and his daughters.
If
it could be arranged.
    Jiang stroked his beard, considering the problem. This was not something Steward Ho could do. Ho was of too low a status; far more crucially, he was too inexperienced to handle this. Then whom?
    The answer came at once. Hsü Jung.