The tea was cold, pale green, and smelled faintly of crushed winter pine.
It sat in a cup carved from a single piece of mutton-fat jade, perfectly centered on a low table of polished red sandalwood inside Zhao Wuji’s private river pavilion. Outside the silk pavilion screens, the river lapped lazily against the wooden support posts. But within the chamber, the air was dead and odorless, purified by four bronze incense burners burning crushed agarwood.
Lin Ke didn’t touch the cup.
He sat on a low wicker stool opposite Zhao Wuji, his hands resting flat against the coarse grey linen of his trousers. His right forearm was tightly bandaged in clean muslin, the mint-and-lard salve cooling the raw burns beneath.
Zhao Wuji took a deliberate sip from his own cup. He set the jade down with a faint, crystal-clear click.
“Cold-Marrow Spirit Tea,” Zhao Wuji said softly, gesturing with two manicured fingers. “Grown on the northern cliffs of Mount Kunlun, harvested before the morning thaw, steeped in snow water that has never touched iron. A single ounce costs four hundred medium-grade spirit stones. You don’t drink it, Junior Brother Lin?”
“I don’t drink unboiled water from unfamiliar wells,” Lin Ke said. His tone was dry, stripped of ceremony. “You didn’t invite me here to discuss herbal infusions, Young Master Zhao.”
