Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Master’s Art of Naming

Little Avalokitesvara introduced, “My Lord, this is the Grand Imperial Chef of Changli. Please sample his skill.”

Lu Hu was teasing Little White with Quan Zhenzhu, when Quan Meiyu scooped up a spoonful of meat with a small golden spoon. Her eyes were enchanting, her smile radiant, and she gently fed it to Lu Hu.

Lu Hu smacked his lips and savored it carefully. “Quite excellent—spicy and tinged with sweetness. Delicious.”

The Grand Imperial Chef bowed deeply. “Thank you for your praise, My Lord.”

Lu Hu took another spoonful of meat soup fed by Quan Meiyu, tasted it, and swallowed. “We just happen to be short a cook here. Quan Huangye chose you, didn’t he? Would you be willing to cook for my family?”

The chef’s eyes lit up at once. “To serve My Lord is my greatest fortune.”

Lu Hu nodded. “Work together with Madam Chicken Essence, put your hearts into making the meals as best as possible. Though you two are not of the same clan, being together is fate—you are brothers now. Let there be no resentment. Brothers united, their strength can cut through gold.”

Lu Hu raised his voice, and in truth, he meant these words for everyone present.

“One word from My Lord is worth a thousand tomes of immortal scriptures,” declared the Grand Marshal, swaying his head, his swollen eyelids shining purple.

“My Lord’s words are worth their weight in gold—they are a revelation,” echoed another Changli minister, also nodding energetically.

“One word from My Lord is worth more than ten thousand of our own empty boasts,” An Shiji chimed in, trying to nod along, his words astonishing all.

He felt indignant inside: Don’t think Changli’s ministers are the only cultured ones. I studied at the Xilote private school for a few days too—I can brag and flatter with the best of them.

“Can’t you shut your mouth for once, even at the dinner table?” Shi Xiangxiang glared at An Shiji.

An Shiji realized his error, knowing his words were highly inappropriate. He snuck a glance at Lu Hu, saw the Lord was flirting with Quan Meiyu and hadn’t noticed, and finally relaxed.

“My Lord, I have one more request,” the Imperial Chef ventured, emboldened by Lu Hu’s closeness to the two princesses.

Lu Hu glanced at him. “What is it? Speak.”

“I beg My Lord to bestow a name upon me, so I may bring honor to my ancestors.”

Only with a name granted by the Divine could he be considered noble, standing equal with Madam Chicken Essence.

Lu Hu looked him over—his loose, oversized garments—and smiled. “You shall be called Fragrant Drift. How about that?”

“Fragrant Drift—aroma wafting, ethereal as an immortal! A fine, fine name,” the Grand Marshal nodded in approval.

“For a chef to be named Fragrant Drift—only the Divine could come up with that.”

“The Divine is indeed divine. What a perfect name.”

“All the names our Lord has given us are so resounding—they fill us with spirit and pride.”

“That’s right—our enemies would tremble at the sound alone.”

The flattery thundered through the hall in waves of adulation.

Fragrant Drift knelt in gratitude. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“No need for formality,” Lu Hu said, helping him up, secretly pleased: Just coming up with a name brings tears of gratitude. I must use this method more often to win hearts.

This, he decided, should be called: The Lord’s Art of Naming.

After Fragrant Drift had thanked him a thousand times and finally withdrew, Lu Hu remembered Thirteen Spices. He turned to Ma Lihong. “Tell them to bring Thirteen Spices to me.”

“With pleasure!” Ma Lihong delighted in such errands, sashaying out with lively steps.

She deliberately swayed her supple waist, her rounded hips undulating as if stirring a thousand ripples.

Every man at the table watched her enchanting figure with pounding hearts.

“Brother, if you let him in, how can we continue eating?” Quan Zhenzhu was horrified, the memory of Thirteen Spices’ embarrassing mishap still vivid.

“We’ve all nearly finished anyway—it’s no bother,” Lu Hu reassured her, patting her hair.

Soon, two Changli guards brought Thirteen Spices in.

“My Lord, spare me—never again, I swear!” Thirteen Spices fell to his knees, kowtowing fervently.

Now dressed in Changli garb, Thirteen Spices’ appearance put Quan Zhenzhu at ease.

“My Lord, he cannot be forgiven! If he dares tease a divine maid today, who knows who he’ll dare offend tomorrow,” Zhu Xiaoying protested, her chest still aching from the earlier incident, wishing Lu Hu would have him torn apart.

“My Lord, I truly dare not again. I only wish to serve you loyally. If you do not trust me, make me a eunuch!”

As long as he could cook for the Lord, he would rather lose his manhood.

Lu Hu considered: Zhu Xiaoying had a point. This fellow loved his drink and became brazen when drunk, daring anything, a true hazard to keep close. No wonder the palace only employed eunuchs.

Likely, Thirteen Spices feared losing self-control under the influence and thus volunteered.

But I can’t be so cruel. “From now on, you’ll serve under King Shi Zhenxiang. Use your culinary skills well, and if you please the King, you’ll be serving me too.”

Lu Hu could not be sure Thirteen Spices would not revert to his old ways. Keeping him nearby was too risky.

“Thank you, My Lord.” Seeing his fate decided, Thirteen Spices dared say no more.

“Thank you for your favor, My Lord,” Shi Zhenxiang said gratefully.

Even if the chef had faults, he was still the Lord’s chef. Being granted for one’s own use was a supreme honor.

“Has everyone finished?” Lu Hu disliked endless lingering at the table.

“We’ve eaten our fill, My Lord.” … “We’re satisfied, My Lord.” …

“Ma Lihong, Zhu Xiaoying, take the maids and tidy up the tent,” Lu Hu stood and continued, “Let’s go for a walk and digest a bit.”

“With pleasure!” everyone responded, rising together.

Lu Hu took Quan Zhenzhu by the waist with his left arm, held Quan Meiyu’s hand with his right, and led the way. Behind followed Quan Dounan and his wife, Shi Zhenxiang, Yakexi, and a large retinue.

Outside, the wind howled and scattered snow in wild flurries.

The two Changli guards at the front held lanterns, the sheep-fat oil flames flickering, swaying with each gust.

The ground was rutted from passing troops, the darkness making the path invisible. Quan Meiyu slipped with every step, nearly falling if not for Lu Hu’s steady grasp.

Quan Zhenzhu, held close around the waist, barely needed to use her own strength as she walked on tiptoe.

Lu Hu summoned his inner strength, treading the snow as if on firm ground.

The generals managed, but the civil officials slipped repeatedly.

The fat Grand Marshal simply lay on his belly, two guards hauling him along by the arms.

Passing several tents, soldiers dropped to their knees at the sight of Lu Hu, bowing in reverence.

Those already in bed scrambled up to salute.

It was too much to trouble the troops so…

Lu Hu, feeling pity, decided not to stroll further and ordered the leading guard to take them to the Eagle Tent.

Yakexi and Shi Zhenxiang hurried ahead to lift the tent flap—a stench rushed out to greet them…