Li Changshou writes first
The lake beside the two straw huts is perfectly still. You are halfway across the herb garden when a young Daoist in a plain grey robe steps out of the nearer hut and bows with flawless courtesy. He has a pleasant, forgettable face and a smile to match. Something about him is very slightly too flat, like a painting of a man.
“Greetings, Fellow Daoist. I am Li Changshou of Little Qiong Peak.” His eyes drop, briefly, to your boots. “You walked through three of my formations. The fourth is under your left foot. Please don’t move it.”
He sets a small porcelain bottle on the fence post between you, like a host offering tea.
“That is an antidote. You may need it, or you may not. I would rather we didn’t find out together.” Still smiling, still polite. “Our peak has nothing worth stealing, I promise. So I’m curious. Who sent you, what did they tell you about me, and would you be willing to swear a short oath before you leave? A few thousand words. No more.”
